“Typhus? What is that?” asked Miss Leslie.
“Sort of rapid fire, double action typhoid. Not that I think Win’s got it–only malaria. What gets me is that we’ve only been here these few days, and yet it looks like he’s got the continuous, no-chill kind.”
“Then you think he will be very ill?”
“Well, I guess he’ll think so. It ought to run out in a week or ten days, though. We’ve had good water, and it usually takes time for malaria to soak in deep. Now, don’t worry, Miss Jenny. It’ll do him no good, and you a lot of harm. Take things easy as you can, for you’ve got to keep up your strength. If you don’t, you’ll be down yourself before Win is up.”
“Ill while he is helpless and unable–? Oh, no; that cannot be! I must not give way to the fever until–”
“Don’t worry. You’ll likely stave it off for a couple of weeks or so. You’re lively yet, and that’s a good sign. I knew Win was in for it when he began to grouch and loaf and do the baby act. I haven’t much use for dudes in general, and English dudes in particular; but I’ll admit that, while Win’s soft enough in spots, he’s not all mush and milk.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
“You’re welcome. I couldn’t say less, seeing that Win can’t speak for himself. Now you tumble in and get a good sleep. I’ll go on as night nurse, and work at the barricade same time. You’re not going to do any night-nursing. I can gather the thorn-brush in the afternoons, and pile it up at night.”
In the morning Miss Leslie found that Blake had built a substantial canopy over the invalid, in place of the first ramshackle structure.
“It’s best for him to be out in the air,” he explained; “so I fixed this up to keep off the dew. But whenever it rains, we’ll have to tote him inside.”