“A hundred and four and a quarter,” he heard her murmur to the doctor a few minutes later.
“No bird ever flew so high that he didn't come down to roost,” said Mr. Webster aloud.
The doctor and the nurse exchanged knowing glances. They nodded. The patient was already delirious—a bad sign.
“Hey, Doc,” the stricken man called. They bent over him. “Send—cablegram to Billy Geary—tell him—come home—before that thousand—spent—money—my pocket.”
“Yes, I hear you,” the nurse said soothingly. “And the address?”
“Calle de Concordia, Nineteen, Buenaventura, Sobrante.”
“Say it again,” the nurse urged him. “Spell it.” Poor girl! She was a native of St. Louis. If Jack Webster had mentioned Ossawatomie or Canandaigua, he would not have been called upon to go into details and waste his strength. He gasped and wet his lips; she bent to get the message:
“Damn that duck,” he whispered. “She had a green tailor-made suit, and—believe me, girl, I'd rather sell my Death Valley—borax-claims than—work them myself. Free-milling gold—catch it on amalgamating plates—contact between andesite and—Silurian limestone—Billy knows ducks. I taught him myself. Come, Neddy. All together now, you old—pelican. A little close harmony, boys:
“Let go the peak halyards,
Let go the peak halyards,