"I don't know that I shall have any time for dinner to-night."
Then Doctor McCrea turned and again thrust his thermometer between Truax's lips. The reading of that thermometer, two minutes later, seemed to give him a good deal of concern.
"I wish there were a capable physician on shore that I could call in consultation," he remarked in a low tone, but Truax heard and stirred nervously under his blankets.
"I—I wish you could perspire some," said Doctor McCrea, anxiously, as he leaned over the sufferer.
"I—I'm icy c-c-c-cold," chattered Truax.
"Too bad, too bad," declared the naval surgeon, shaking his head.
There was a short interval, during which Truax tossed restlessly.
"Doc," he begged, at last, "I wish you'd tell me what ails me."
"What's the use?" demanded the surgeon, shaking his head.
"Am I—am I—oh, good heavens! There comes that fearful nausea again!"