"How long?" he asked presently.
"Maybe hours. He couldn't say."
"'E's wrong, boss. 'Tain't hours. I'm mighty cold, an'—it's creepin' up quick."
Dave looked at his watch. It was already past two o'clock.
"He said he'd come and see you in the morning."
"I'll be stiff by then," the dying man persisted, with his eyes still on the bottle. "Say, boss," he went on, "that stuff's a heap warming—an' I'm cold."
Dave poured him out more brandy. Then he took off his own coat and laid it over the man's legs. His fur coat and another fur robe were in the cupboard, and these he added. And the man's thanks came awkwardly.
"I can't send for a parson," Dave said regretfully, after a few moments' silence. "I'd like to, but Parson Tom's away up in the hills. It's only right——"
"He's gone up to the hills?" the sick man interrupted him, as though struck by a sudden thought.
"Yes. It's fever."