“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.

“To think that, all the time,” he muttered, “I’ve been longing for a doctor’s visit, and yet I’ve had a man in camp who’s almost a doctor.”

“No, sir; a long way from that,” protested Tim Walsh.  “And, besides, I’ve forgotten a whole lot that I used to know.”

Tom rapidly explained how he had been treating Hazelton, according to the directions in the little medicine book.  Tim listened gravely.  “Was that all right, Tim?” Tom asked, breathlessly, when he had finished.

“I should say about all right, sir.”

“Tim, what shall I do next?”

“Do you want me to tell you, sir?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Then I might as well do it, sir, as tell you,” Tim drawled out. 
“Mr. Reade, you’re worn to pieces.  You get into your bunk and
I’ll take charge for an hour.”

“I want to see you do the things you know how to do.”

“Not a thing will I do, Mr. Reade, unless you get into your bunk for an hour,” declared Walsh, sturdily.

“Will you call me in an hour, if I lie down?”

“I will.”

“You’ll call me in an hour?”

“On my honor, Mr. Reade.”

Tim Walsh thereupon bundled the young engineer into another bunk, covered him up, and then watched until Tom Reade, utterly exhausted, fell into a deep sleep that was more like a trance.

“But I didn’t say in which hour I’d call him,” muttered Walsh under his breath, his eyes twinkling.  Then he tip-toed over to look at Harry Hazelton, who, also, was asleep.  Through the whole day Tom slept nor did the ex-Army nurse once quit the shack.

When dark came Tim Walsh had just finished lighting the lamp and shading it when he turned to find Tom Reade glaring angrily into his eyes.

“Tim, what does this treachery mean?” Reade questioned in a hoarse whisper.

“It means, sir, that you had tired yourself out so that you were no longer fit to nurse your partner.  He was in bad hands, taking his medicines and his care from a man as dog-tired as you were, Mr. Reade.  It also means, sir, that I’ve been looking after Mr. Hazelton all day, and he’s a bit better this evening.  Him and me had a short chat this afternoon, and you never heard us.  Mr. Hazelton went to sleep only twenty minutes ago.  When he wakes up you can feel his skin and take his pulse, and you’ll find him doing better.”