The doctor drew himself up and, to quote his own language, “let him have it straight.”
“If he lives to get home it will be a good deal more than I expect of him.”
French nodded toward the door, and turned his back.
That night he relieved the doctor’s watch by sitting up with his friend, and, having given him his broth at midnight, was almost dozing in his chair when a whisper from Simeon roused him. The sound was so faint, he held his breath to listen.
“Stephen, I want to see Deena.”
French’s heart began thumping like the screw of his yacht. How he thanked God that he could look his friend in the face as he answered:
“So you shall, old man; just as quickly as steam can carry you to her.”
A look of satisfaction came into the tired eyes.
“It will be a race with death,” he said, “but perhaps—thank you, Stephen.” And he fell asleep.