Conscious and free from fever, he was barely able to articulate, but when delirious fancies possessed him he could talk rapidly, in a good voice. Very soon it was clear that he was calmer for the colonel’s presence. Hence, the latter got into the habit of sitting in the room. He would request imaginary ruined and desperate beings to leave Keatcham in peace; he would gravely rise and close the door on their departure. He never was surprised nor at a loss; and his dramatic nerve never failed. Later, as the visions faded, a moody reserve wrapped the sick man. He lay motionless, evidently absorbed by thought. In one way he was what doctors call a very good patient. He obeyed all directions; he was not restless. But neither was he ever cheerful. Every day he asked for his pulse record and his temperature and his respiration. After a consultation with the doctor, Miss Smith gave them to him.
“It is against the rules,” grumbled the doctor, “but I suppose each patient has to make his own rules.” On the same theory he permitted the colonel’s visits.
Therefore, with no surprise, Winter received and obeyed the summons. Keatcham greeted him with his usual stiff courtesy.
“The doctor says I can have the—papers—will you pick out—the—one—day after I was stabbed.”
Miss Smith indicated a pile on a little table, placed ready at hand. “I kept them for him,” she said.
“Read about—the Midland,” commanded the faint, indomitable voice.
“Want the election and the newspaper sentiments?” asked the colonel; he gave it all, conscious the while of Janet Smith’s compassionate, perplexed, sorrowful eyes.
“Don’t skip!” Keatcham managed to articulate after a pause.
The colonel gave him a keen glance. “Want it straight, without a chaser?”
Keatcham closed his eyes and nodded.