The task of writing was hateful to him beyond expression, but with such determination as he could yet summon to his aid Bennett stuck to it, eight, ten, and sometimes fourteen hours each day.  In a way his narrative was an atonement.  Ferriss was its hero.  Almost instinctively Bennett kept the figure of himself, his own achievements, his own plans and ideas, in the background.  On more than one page he deliberately ascribed to Ferriss triumphs which no one but himself had attained.  It was Ferriss who was the leader, the victor to whom all laurels were due.  It was Ferriss whose example had stimulated the expedition to its best efforts in the darkest hours; it was, practically, Ferriss who had saved the party after the destruction of the ship; whose determination, unbroken courage, endurance, and intelligence had pervaded all minds and hearts during the retreat to Kolyuchin Bay.

“Though nominally in command,” wrote Bennett, “I continually gave place to him.  Without his leadership we should all, unquestionably, have perished before even reaching land.  His resolution to conquer, at whatever cost, was an inspiration to us all.  Where he showed the way we had to follow; his courage was never daunted, his hope was never dimmed, his foresight, his intelligence, his ingenuity in meeting and dealing with apparently unsolvable problems were nothing short of marvellous.  His was the genius of leadership.  He was the explorer, born to his work.”

One day, just after luncheon, as Bennett, according to his custom, was walking in the garden by the house, smoking a cigar before returning to his work, he was surprised to find himself bleeding at the nose.  It was but a trifling matter, and passed off in a few moments, but the fact of its occurrence directed his attention to the state of his health, and he told himself that for the last few days he had not been at all his accustomed self.  There had been dull pains in his back and legs; more than once his head had pained him, and of late the continuance of his work had been growing steadily more obnoxious to him, the very physical effort of driving the pen from line to line was a burden.

“Hum!” he said to himself later on in the day, when the bleeding at the nose returned upon him, “I think we need a little quinine.”

But the next day he found he could not eat, and all the afternoon, though he held doggedly to his work, he was troubled with nausea.  At times a great weakness, a relaxing of all the muscles, came over him.  In the evening he sent a note to Dr. Pitts’s address in the City, asking him to come down to Medford the next day.

* * * * *

On the Monday morning of the following week, some two hours after breakfast, Lloyd met Miss Douglass on the stairs, dressed for the street and carrying her nurse’s bag.

“Are you going out?” she asked of the fever nurse in some astonishment.  “Where are you going?” for Lloyd had returned to duty, and it was her name that now stood at the top of the list; “I thought it was my turn to go out,” she added.