"Ah … yes. That's what … I haven't mentioned the fever in writing to her, you see. It will be a shock."
Harber, looking at him, thought that it would, indeed.
"I had a letter from her just before we sailed," went on the other, more cheerfully. "I'd like awfully, some time, to have you meet her. She's a wonderful girl—wonderful. She's clever. She's much cleverer than I am, really … about most things. When we get to Victoria, you must let me give you my address."
"Thanks," said Harber. "I'll be glad to have it."
That was the last Harber saw of him for five days. The weather had turned rough, and he supposed the poor fellow was seasick, and thought of him sympathetically, but let it rest there. Then, one evening after dinner, the steward came for him and said that Mr. Clay Barton wanted to see him. Harber followed to Barton's stateroom, which the sick man was occupying alone. In the passageway near the door, he met the ship's doctor.
"Mr. Harber?" said the doctor. "Your friend in there—I'm sorry to say—is——"
"I suspected as much," said Harber. "He knows it himself, I think."
"Does he?" said the doctor, obviously relieved. "Well, I hope that he'll live till we get him ashore. There's just a chance, of course, though his fever is very high now. He's quite lucid just now, and has been insisting upon seeing you. Later he mayn't be conscious. So——"
Harber nodded. "I'll go in."
Barton lay in his berth, still, terribly thin, and there were two pink patches of fever burning upon his cheek-bones. He opened his eyes with an infinite weariness as Harber entered the room, and achieved a smile.