“Sorry to disturb your rest, Marston,” I told him as we came within a few feet of him. “It’s a shame to get you up before noon, but you can get your beauty sleep back at Langham.”
By that time I was right over him, and as I looked down at him I saw that his face was a curious greenish color. His eyes glared up into mine with that non-stop hatred in them. Then, without a word, he staggered to his feet and over to one side of the field, where he had what looked like a paroxysm of coughing; apparently trying to vomit, but couldn’t. Then he walked back to us, and seemed to be all right, temporarily.
“Sick?” I asked him, while curious onlookers gathered close.
“Get back where you belong!” yelled Les, and herded them away.
“I never was sicker in my life,” stated Marston, mumbling his words.
“Any idea what made you so?”
“No, sir. Late last night a couple of fellows came out and gabbed a while, and finally went to town and got some sandwiches and coffee and we ate ’em. They beat it away, and I went to sleep a while and woke up sick as a dog. And I’ve been sick ever since.”
“Haven’t been drinking any of this moonshine?”
“No,” he barked savagely, as if I was inferring that he was responsible for the war or something.
“Well, are you up to the trip?”