"Delirious nothing. I'm a well man."

"Go to bed--go to bed."

Harkless set him out of the way with one arm. "Bed be hanged!" he cried.
"I'm going to Plattville!"

Meredith wrung his hands. "The doctor----"!

"Doctor be damned!"

"Will you tell me what has happened, John?"

His companion slung a light overcoat, unfolded, on the overflowing,
misshapen bundle of clothes that lay in the bag; then he jumped on the lid
with both feet and kicked the hasp into the lock; a very elegantly
laundered cuff and white sleeve dangling out from between the fastened
lids. "I haven't one second to talk, Tom; I have seventeen minutes to
catch the express, and it's a mile and a half to the station; the train
leaves here at eight fifty, I get to Plattville at ten forty-seven.
Telephone for a cab for me, please, or tell me the number; I don't want to
stop to hunt it up."

Meredith looked him in the eyes. In the pupils of Harkless flared a fierce
light. His cheeks were reddened with an angry, healthy glow, and his teeth
were clenched till the line of his jaw stood out like that of an embattled
athlete in sculpture; his brow was dark; his chest was thrown out, and he
took deep, quick breaths; his shoulders were squared, and in spite of his
thinness they looked massy. Lethargy, or malaria, or both, whatever were