“My! how smart we’re getting!” retorted Blake. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll stow the stuff in Miss Jenny’s boudoir, and I guess the birdies’ll be polite enough to keep out.”
“I must say, Blake, I do not see why you should wish to drag us away from here.”
“There’re lots of things you don’t see, Win, me b’y–jokes, for instance. But what could you expect?–you’re English. Now, don’t get mad. Worst thing in the world for malaria.”
“One would fancy you could see that I am not angry. I’ve a splitting headache, and my back hurts. I am ill.”
Blake looked him over critically, and nodded. “That’s no lie, old man. You’re entitled to a hospital check all right. Miss Jenny, we’ll appoint you chief nurse. Make him comfortable as you can, and give him hot broth whenever he’ll take it. You can do your sewing on the side. Whenever you need help, call on me. I’m going to begin that barricade.”
CHAPTER XIV
FEVER AND FIRE AND FEAR
By nightfall Winthrope was tossing and groaning on the bed of leaves which Miss Leslie had heaped beneath his canopy. Though not delirious, his high temperature, coupled with the pains which racked every nerve and bone in his body, rendered him light-headed. He would catch himself up in the midst of some rambling nonsense to inquire anxiously whether he had said anything silly or strange. On being reassured upon this, he would relax again, and, as likely as not, break into a babyish wail over his aches and pains.
Blake shook his head when he learned that the attack had not been preceded by a chill.
“Guess he’s in for a hot time,” he said. “There is more’n one kind of malarial fever. Some are a whole lot like typhus.”