"They've kept those locked away from me for two weeks," says he, "and that was worse than going without food."
"Smoke up, then," says I. "There's one due you."
"As it will probably be my last, I guess I will," says he.
Honest, the old gent was so sure he'd croak before mornin' that he wanted to write some farewell letters, but he was too done up for that. I tucked him into a spare bed, opened all the windows, and before I could turn out the light he was sawin' wood like a hired man.
He was still workin' the fog horn when I went in to rout him out at five o'clock. It was a tough job gettin' him up, but I got him out of his trance at last.
"Come on," says I, "we've got to do our three miles and have a rub-down before breakfast."
First off he swore he couldn't move, and I guess he was some stiff from his sprint the day before, but by the time he'd got out where the birds was singin', and the trees and grass looked like they'd been done over new durin' the night, I was able to coax him into a dog-trot. It was a gentle little stunt we did, but it limbered the old boy up, and after we'd had a cold shower and a quick rub he forgot all about his joints.
"Well, are you set on keepin' that date in the obituary column, or will we have breakfast?" says I.
"I could eat cold lobscouse," says he.
"Mother Whaley's got somethin' better'n that in the kitchen," says I.