“Oh, you’ll be all right,” replied the doctor, evasively.

“When?”

“Oh, in a few days, anyway.”

“What have I got?  A fever?”

“Now, don’t ask questions, my man.  Just lie quietly, and let us get you on your feet as soon as possible.”

Just then the hospital man returned with a glass of something for which Doctor McCrea had sent him.

“Drink this,” ordered the surgeon.

Truax obeyed.

“Now, in a few minutes, you ought to feel better,” urged the surgeon, after the man in the berth had swallowed a sweetish drink.

Did he?  Feel better?  Truax soon began to turn decidedly white about the gills.

“I—­I feel—­awful,” he groaned.

Doctor McCrea, in silence, again felt the fellow’s pulse.

But, in a minute, something happened.  A man may feel as well as ever, at one moment.  Twenty minutes later, however, if he vomits, it is impossible to convince himself that he feels anything like well.

More of the same draught was brought, and the sick man made to swallow it.  Even a third and a fourth dose were administered.  Sam Truax became so much worse, in fact, that he did not even hear when the bow cable chains of the gunboat grated as the anchors were let go opposite Blair’s Cove just before dark.

Certainly no man of medicine could have been more attentive than was Doctor McCrea.  Even when one of the ward-room stewards appeared and announced that dinner was served, the naval surgeon replied: 

“I don’t know that I shall have any time for dinner to-night.”

Then Doctor McCrea turned and again thrust his thermometer between Truax’s lips.  The reading of that thermometer, two minutes later, seemed to give him a good deal of concern.

“I wish there were a capable physician on shore that I could call in consultation,” he remarked in a low tone, but Truax heard and stirred nervously under his blankets.

“I—­I wish you could perspire some,” said Doctor McCrea, anxiously, as he leaned over the sufferer.

“I—­I’m icy c-c-c-cold,” chattered Truax.

“Too bad, too bad,” declared the naval surgeon, shaking his head.

There was a short interval, during which Truax tossed restlessly.

“Doc,” he begged, at last, “I wish you’d tell me what ails me.”

“What’s the use?” demanded the surgeon, shaking his head.

“Am I—­am I—­oh, good heavens!  There comes that fearful nausea again!”

“No, no!  Fight it off!  Don’t let it get the better of you,” urged the surgeon, anxiously.

But the nausea was not to be denied.  Presently Truax settled back on his pillows.

“Is there anything on your mind, my man?” asked Doctor McCrea, bending over the sufferer.  “Is there anything you’d like to set right, before—­before—­”

Doctor Mccrea’s speech ended in an odd little click in his throat.