The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping through the treetops, and looked into his throat. “My man, you go right back to bed quick.”
“No, it will not to bed,” replied Yonie. “Big work to-day, boss say. He not like men sick.”
“You hear me,” said the doctor sharply. “You go back to bed. Where's your doctor?”
“He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder,” said Tommy, pointing the way.
“Never mind now. Where are your sick men?”
“De seeck mans?” replied the cook. “She's be hall overe. On de bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den seeck mans hall aroun'.”
“What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?”
“Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's what you call lak' one beas'.”
The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern.
“Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your throats, men.”