"Let us stop somewhere," DeGolyer urged.
"No," Witherspoon answered, "let us get to Dura as soon as we can. I've got a fever, haven't I?"
DeGolyer leaned over and placed his hand on Witherspoon's forehead. "Yes, you have."
"The truth is, I haven't felt altogether right since the first day after we started, but I thought it would wear off."
When they reached Dura, Witherspoon was delirious. Not a ship was in port, and DeGolyer took him to an inn and summoned such medical aid as the hamlet afforded. The physician naturally gave the case a threatening color, and it followed that he was right, for at the close of the fourth day the patient gave no promise of improvement. The innkeeper said that sometimes a month passed between the landing of ships at that point. The fifth day came. DeGolyer sat by the bedside of his friend, fanning him. The doctor had called and had just taken his leave.
"Give me some water, Hank."
"Ah, you are coming around all right, my boy," DeGolyer cried. He brought the water; and when the patient drank and shook his head as a signal to take away the cup, DeGolyer asked; "Don't you feel a good deal better?"
"No."
"But your mind is clear?"
"Yes."