And now John Morning felt himself breaking—he was brittle, hard like glass—and his last idea concerned the package of Chinese parchment which they had not brought from the hammock.... Six days afterward he asked for it.
For a short while each day, during the interval, he just touched the main idea and sank back to sleep. He suffered very little. The after-effects of his journey from Liaoyang tried to murder him in various ways, but relaxation, nourishment, good air and care worked as a sort of continuous anæsthesia. On this sixth day the Doctor appeared to ignore his question about the package of paper, but leaned forward, glanced to the right and left, as if to communicate a plan to scuttle the ship, and said:
“You’re one more little man. You’ve had a new one each day—pneumonia, sclerosis, brain-fever.... My hospital report on your case will drive the Major-Surgeon into permanent retirement.... What did you say was the matter to-day—Chinese parchment?”
“I’ve got so much to do, Doctor?... What day is this?”
“Morning of the nineteenth.”
The color swept into Morning’s face, terror into his eyes.
“I didn’t think it was so bad as that—I can’t lay up any more—twelve days left.... Two weeks and two days since I rode out of Liaoyang——”
“I’ll have to let ’em put you in the forward hutch—if you begin to talk Liaoyang, now that your fever’s down. There wasn’t any Americans in that fighting——”
“I’m not a soldier——”
Nevin wrung his hands. A thought recurred to Morning.