“I don’t call myself that,” said the Professor modestly, “but I may claim to have discovered pathogenic continents.  Now, my boy”—­he took hold firmly of Dan’s arm—­“I am going to put you to bed.”

“No, you ain’t,” said Dan.  “I’ve chores to do.  I can’t be spared.”

The Professor nodded.

“You’re a stout fellow.  After all, half-an-hour won’t make any material difference.”

“In half-an-hour you’ll find me in the bunk-house.  I’m obligated to ye,” he added hastily.  “So long!”

He strode off.  The Professor nodded approvingly.  He had grit himself, and esteemed it highly in others.

“I must pull him through,” he muttered.

* * * * *

When the Professor reached the bunk-house, he found three tall strong men awaiting him.  Their faces, tanned by many suns, exhibited a curious uniformity of tint—­the colour of dirty gruel.

Dan said in a voice that trembled—­

“These are my friends, Jimmie Barker and Pete Holloway.  They helped open up that derned spring.  They drank a plenty of the water.  Jimmie, here, couldn’t git enough of it.  They’ve the same symptoms as I hev.”

Jimmie and Pete writhed.

“Pins and needles all over,” said Pete.

“Went to sleep on an ants’ nest onst,” said Jimmie faintly.  “This is a heap worse.”

“Heaven help you!” ejaculated the Professor.

“’Pears to me,” said Dan solemnly, “from what you said just now, we’re in the mulligatawny.”

The Professor muttered something encouraging, but he remembered the cow.

“To bed with you,” he commanded.

Within half-an-hour everyone on the ranch had heard the news.  The Professor alone remained monumentally impassive.

“All that is humanly possible shall be done,” he affirmed.

“And your treatment?” said I.

“I have no drugs here, but already I have despatched a man to San Lorenzo for strychnia, which in the first stage is invaluable.  Meantime I must do what I can with whisky.  Have you plenty of whisky?”

“Yes, but——­”

“I want a gallon of it.”

“Of course you are aware—­you know, I mean——­”

The Professor waved a powerful arm; beneath his shaggy brows his grey eyes sparkled angrily.

“I know what I am doing,” he said sharply, “and I cannot waste valuable time imparting to a layman knowledge gathered during a lifetime.  The whisky, please—­at once.”

I obeyed meekly.  Five minutes later, the Professor was walking towards the bunk-house with a gallon demijohn tucked under his arm.  A quarter of an hour afterwards he might have been seen returning.  His eyes were positively snapping with vigour and excitement, for he loved a fight for a fight’s sake.  Ajax met him.

“Professor,” he said, “I don’t want you to impart the knowledge of a lifetime to me, but do, please, tell us something.  We are on edge with anxiety.”