He was conscious, though he spoke but
little, nor did poor Tom seek to induce him to talk.
By this time Reade knew the little medicine book by heart. He
also knew the label and dose of every drug in the case. But he
had not been able to improve upon his first selection of treatment.
"Do you think he's going to die, Jim?" Tom frequently asked.
"What's the use of a strong young fellow like him dying?" demanded
Ferrers.
"Then why doesn't he get better?"
"I don't know. But he'll come around all right. Don't worry
about that. Strong men don't go under from a cold in the head,
or from a bit of wheeze in the lungs."
"But the fever."
"That has to burn itself out, I reckon," replied the Nevadan.
"Reade, you'll be sick yourself next. Lay out the medicines, and
I'll give 'em, to the minute, while you get six hours' sleep."
"No, sir!" was Reade's quick retort.
"Then, before you do cave in, partner, suppose you pick out the
medicines that you want me to give you when you can't do anything
for yourself any longer.
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