So Lane went up to Blair's room, which he remembered almost as well as his own, though now it was in disorder. Blair was in his shirt sleeves. He looked both gay and spent. Red Payson was in bed, and his face bore the hectic flush of fever.
"Aw, he's only had too much to eat," declared Blair, in answer to Lane's solicitation.
"How's that, Red?" asked Lane, sitting down on the bed beside Payson.
"It's nothing, Dare.... I'm just all in," replied Red, with a weary smile.
"I telephoned Doc Bronson to come out," said Blair, "and look us over. That made Red as sore as a pup. Isn't he the limit? By thunder, you can't do anything for some people."
Blair's tone and words of apparent vexation were at variance with the kindness of his eyes as they rested upon his sick comrade.
"I just came from Bronson's," observed Lane. "He's been our doctor for as long as I can remember."
Both Lane's comrades searched his face with questioning eyes, and while Lane returned that gaze there was a little constrained silence.
"Bronson examined me—and said I'd live to be eighty," added Lane, with dry humor.
"You're a liar!" burst out Blair.