“I say, Martin,” said Dr. Turnbull, “I think you had better go. The case may be urgent.”
“Cameron!” cried Martin again. “I bet my bat it's—Here, wait till I get my coat. I'll be with you in a jerk. Have you got a good horse?”
“He's all right,” said Sam. “He'll git you there in an hour.”
“An hour? How far is it?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Great heavens! Come, then, get a move on!” And so it came that within an hour Cameron, opening his eyes, looked up into the face of his friend.
“Martin! By Jove!” he said, and closed his eyes again. “Martin!” he said again, looking upon the familiar face. “Say, old boy, is this a dream? I seem to be having lots of them.”
“It's no dream, old chap, but what in the mischief is the matter? What does all this fever mean? Let's look at you.”
A brief examination was enough to show the doctor that a broken leg was the least of Cameron's trouble. A hasty investigation of the resources of the farm house determined the doctor's course.
“This man has typhoid fever, a bad case too,” he said to Mandy. “We will take him in to the hospital.”