“I can that same, if I must.”
“You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. Get something to eat.”
In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the room.
“This man,” said the doctor, “is dead. Diphtheria. There is no fear, Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at once, and you will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall fumigate this room. All this clothing must be burned and there will be no further danger. You will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2 to-night.”
“To-night, doctor!” cried the foreman. “It's blowing a regular blizzard. Can't you wait till morning?”
“There are men sick at No. 2,” said the doctor. “The chances are it's diphtheria.”
In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp possessed.
“Have you had something to eat, Tommy?” inquired the doctor, stepping out from the saloon.
“That's what I have,” replied Tommy.
“All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep.”