Fifteen minutes later Jim was on his way. Tim Walsh came in on
tip-toe, and seemed afraid to stir lest he make some slight sound
to disturb the sleeping sick lad.
"A day or two more will tell the tale, Tim," Tom whispered in
the big miner's ear.
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that, sir; it can't be," protested the big
fellow in a hoarse whisper. "I reckon Mr. Hazelton is going to get
well all right."
"He won't eat anything," said Tom.
"He will when he's hungry, sir."
"Tim, have you ever had any practice in looking after sick people?"
"Quite a bit, sir. When I was a younker I was private in the
hospital corps in the Army."
"Why on earth didn't you tell me that before?" Tom gasped.
"Why, because, sir, I allowed that a brainy young man like you
would know just what to do a heap better than I would."
"Tim, do you know anything about temperatures and drugs?"
"Maybe I'd remember a little bit," Walsh answered modestly. "It's
twelve years since I was in the Army."
Tom brought the medicine case with trembling hands.
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