“I've driven in from Hazlets in the rain.” Hazlets was a good ten miles out on the prairie.
“You shouldn't have done it! You take no sort of care of yourself.”
By the time Gibbs had gotten his friend to his room, and undressed and in bed, he was shaking with a violent chill. Gibbs piled the blankets on him, and went down to the kitchen where he told Mrs. Bassett to prepare a hot whisky for the sick man.
“You give it to him, and I'll be back with Arling in a minute or so,” he said, and ran to the saloon, where he arrived panting and out of breath.
The doctor had received his monthly remittance the day before, and the results had been disastrous; but Gibbs was equal to the emergency. He dragged him unceremoniously enough from the chair he was sleeping in back of the stove, and laid him flat on the floor; then he brought a bucket of water from the well in the yard, and splashed it in his face. This produced immediate results. The doctor opened his eyes, groaned, and sat up.
“What the hell you doing to me, Gibbs?” he sputtered angrily, for the deluge continued.
“I'm trying to sober you, Doc, Landray's sick.”
“Want to drown me? I tell you I'm sober enough. What's the matter of Landray?”
“He's sick—is having sort of a chill.”
“He don't take no care of himself, never seen such imprudence,” said Arling crossly.