“Golly, I've seen typhoid in lumber-camps,” groaned Miles, all the strength dripping out of him. “Have they got it very bad?”
“Oh, we'll take good care of them,” said Kennicott, and for the first time in their acquaintance he smiled on Miles and clapped his shoulder.
“Won't you need a nurse?” demanded Carol.
“Why——” To Miles, Kennicott hinted, “Couldn't you get Bea's cousin, Tina?”
“She's down at the old folks', in the country.”
“Then let me do it!” Carol insisted. “They need some one to cook for them, and isn't it good to give them sponge baths, in typhoid?”
“Yes. All right.” Kennicott was automatic; he was the official, the physician. “I guess probably it would be hard to get a nurse here in town just now. Mrs. Stiver is busy with an obstetrical case, and that town nurse of yours is off on vacation, ain't she? All right, Bjornstam can spell you at night.”
All week, from eight each morning till midnight, Carol fed them, bathed them, smoothed sheets, took temperatures. Miles refused to let her cook. Terrified, pallid, noiseless in stocking feet, he did the kitchen work and the sweeping, his big red hands awkwardly careful. Kennicott came in three times a day, unchangingly tender and hopeful in the sick-room, evenly polite to Miles.
Carol understood how great was her love for her friends. It bore her through; it made her arm steady and tireless to bathe them. What exhausted her was the sight of Bea and Olaf turned into flaccid invalids, uncomfortably flushed after taking food, begging for the healing of sleep at night.
During the second week Olaf's powerful legs were flabby. Spots of a viciously delicate pink came out on his chest and back. His cheeks sank. He looked frightened. His tongue was brown and revolting. His confident voice dwindled to a bewildered murmur, ceaseless and racking.