“Dis de docteur, men,” said the cook.
A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with each examination.
“Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp.”
“Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the stink of it would make a well man sick.”
“And is there no place else?”
“No. Unless it's the stables,” said another man; “they're not quite so bad.”
“Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you something.” He opened his bag, took out his syringe. “Here, Yonie, we'll begin with you. Roll up your sleeve.” And in three minutes he had given all four an antitoxin injection. “Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way what's his name?”
“Hain,” said the cook, “dat's his nem.”
“Haines,” explained one of the men.
“Dat's what I say,” said the cook indignantly, “Hain.”