drew his curtains trembled piteously. Tom Little lost all his
humor and lay quite still until she turned away. Then, with a sob, she
ran outside after Mrs. Goring, and so unsettled by her trouble was
Little that the sleep which should have placed him on the road to
recovery utterly deserted him, and the heat became suddenly oppressive.

So he tossed and writhed through the hours, while Barry slumbered
peacefully and breathed in new strength. Little was aware of a subtle
drone and hum all around the place; he placed it to the further credit
of pestiferous insects and cursed them dully. From the river crept in a
rank odor of musk and mud that mingled with the sleepy sounds to lull
him, yet his brain refused to rest. He sweat and twisted in the depths
of dire discomfort.

Wondering how many hours went to a Celebes minute, how many ages into an
hour, he was suddenly aware of a silent figure that crept into the hut
and sat on a low stool beside the medicine chest. It was a man, shod,
therefore a white man; and some vaguely familiar, yet utterly strange
gesture gave Little a hint of his identity.

"Gordon!" he whispered, and the man sprang up with a muffled exclamation
of annoyance.

"It is Gordon, isn't it?" whispered Little, welcoming any break to the
awful monotony, doubly glad that it was Gordon who made the break. "I
can't sleep, old chap. Come and chat, there's a good sport."

"I'll give you a draft to help you sleep," muttered Gordon, searching
out a bottle. Little noticed even in the poor light that this was a
different Gordon from the shattered wreck he had first seen. There was
no tremor, no uncertainty, in the fingers that unstoppered a small
bottle and poured out a draft; when the man leaned over him, drawing
aside the curtains, the eyes that looked down at Little were bright and
clear, true windows of a healthy soul.

"Drink this and try to sleep," urged Gordon gently. "I ought not to talk
to you at all, you know. You're a pretty sick man, Little, and I'm only
convalescent yet. Come, drink it; it's harmless and very efficacious."

"I'll swallow that stuff if you'll talk to me a bit, Gordon," Little
bargained. "Unless it's powerful dope, it won't make me sleep. I simply
can't sleep."

"Drink it then, and I'll chat with you until you drop off," replied
Gordon, and his tone revealed uneasiness. He pressed the glass into
Little's fingers and repeated, "Drink it."

Little gulped the stuff down, and a glad w