“Plenty. I’m getting it as fast as I can. Find a match, Bee.”
The wind was blowing hard and the tent was tugging at its ropes, and starting a fire wasn’t an easy matter. Luckily, however, a few embers still remained and there was wood handy and at last Jack had the fire going and the kettle on. But the wind blew the flames around, driving sparks into the air, and the water heated slowly. Meanwhile Hal groaned on, protesting between groans that he was poisoned and would surely die.
“All the matter with you is that you ate too many clams,” replied Jack. “I’ll have you fixed up in five minutes, Hal.”
“I shan’t—be alive—in five minutes,” groaned Hal. “Why did we come away without any medicine? Ow! O-o-oh! Can’t you do anything for a fellow, Jack?”
“Just a minute now,” comforted Jack. “Feel a little better, do you?”
“No, it’s getting—worse! It—it’s ptomaine poisoning, and folks die of that, don’t they?”
“Not generally, I guess. Turn over and let Bee rub you, Hal.”
“No-o-o! I don’t want—to be rubbed! Isn’t that—water hot yet?”
It was, and Bee supported Hal’s head while Jack poured cupful after cupful of scalding water down his throat, Hal protesting whenever they allowed him a chance that they were burning his insides.