Decidedly Richard Ferriss was ill; there could be no doubt about that.  Bennett had not slept the night before, but had gone to and fro about the rooms tending to his wants with a solicitude and a gentleness that in a man so harsh and so toughly fibred seemed strangely out of place.  Bennett was far from well himself.  The terrible milling which he had undergone had told even upon that enormous frame, but his own ailments were promptly ignored now that Ferriss, the man of all men to him, was “down.”

“I didn’t pull through with you, old man,” he responded to all of Ferriss’s protests, “to have you get sick on my hands at this time of day.  No more of your damned foolishness now.  Here’s the quinine.  Down with it!”

Bennett met Pitts at the door of Ferriss’s room, and before going in drew him into a corner.

“He’s a sick boy, Pitts, and is going to be worse, though he’s just enough of a fool boy not to admit it.  I’ve seen them start off this gait before.  Remember, too, when you look him over that it’s not as though he had been in a healthy condition before.  Our work in the ice ground him down about as fine as he could go and yet live, and the hardtack and salt pork on the steam whalers were not a good diet for a convalescent.  And see here, Pitts,” said Bennett, clearing his throat, “I—­well, I’m rather fond of that fool boy in there.  We are not taking any chances, you understand.”

After the doctor had seen the chief engineer and had prescribed calomel and a milk diet, Bennett followed him out into the hall and accompanied him to the door.

“Verdict?” he demanded, fixing the physician intently with his small, distorted eyes.  But Pitts was non-committal.

“Yes, he’s a sick boy, but the thing, whatever it is going to be, has been gathering slowly.  He complains of headache, great weakness and nausea, and you speak of frequent nose-bleeds during the night.  The abdomen is tender upon pressure, which is a symptom I would rather not have found.  But I can’t make any positive diagnosis as yet.  Some big sickness is coming on—­that, I am afraid, is certain.  I shall come out here to-morrow.  But, Mr. Bennett, be careful of yourself.  Even steel can weaken, you know.  You see this rabble” (he motioned with his head toward the anteroom, where the other visitors were waiting) “that is hounding you?  Everybody knows where you are.  Man, you must have rest.  I don’t need to look at you more than once to know that.  Get away!  Get away even from your mails!  Hide from everybody for a while!  Don’t think you can nurse your friend through these next few weeks, because you can’t.”

“Well,” answered Bennett, “wait a few days.  We’ll see by the end of the week.”

The week passed.  Ferriss went gradually from bad to worse, though as yet the disease persistently refused to declare itself.  He was quite helpless, and Bennett watched over him night and day, pottering around him by the hour, giving him his medicines, cooking his food, and even when Ferriss complained of the hotness of the bedclothes, changing the very linen that he might lie upon cool sheets.  But at the end of the week Dr. Pitts declared that Bennett himself was in great danger of breaking down, and was of no great service to the sick man.