eeks incubating, for the woods boss reported that his superior had
complained of being "under the weather" for ten days before yielding
to the former's repeated advice to go down to Port Agnew and have the
doctor look him over. As a result of Donald's stubborn refusal to
acknowledge his illness, the disease had reached a fair stage of
development by the time he received medical attention.

He was not delirious when The Laird and Mrs. McKaye reached the
hospital that morning, however, they were permitted to see him for but
a few minutes only.

"Has he a fighting chance?" old Hector demanded bluntly of the doctor.
It seemed to him that his son's face already wore the look of one
doomed to dissolution at an early date.

"Yes, he has, Mr. McKaye," the doctor replied gravely; "provided he'll
fight. You will understand that in typhoid fever the mortality rate is
rather high--as high as thirty per cent. However, in the case of
Donald, who is a husky athlete, I should place the odds at about ten
to one that he'll survive an attack of even more than moderate
severity. That is," he added, "under the most favorable conditions."

"Well, what's wrong with the conditions in this case?" The Laird
demanded crisply. "You can have anything you want--if you're shy on
material to work with, and I've sent for the best physician in the
state to come here and consult with you."

"The hospital conditions are perfect, Mr. McKaye. What I mean is this:
It is a well recognized principle of medical practice that a patient
combating a disease of extreme severity and high mortality is
sustained quite as much by his courage and a passionate desire to get
well--in a word, by his morale--as he is by his capacity for physical
resistance. Your son is, I think, slightly depressed mentally. That is
the sole reason I see to warrant apprehension."

"Oh--so that's all, eh?" The Laird was relieved. "Then don't worry
about him. He'll put up a battle--never fear. Why, he never quit in
all his life. However, in case he might need a bit of encouragement
from his old daddy from time to time, you'll have a room made ready
for me. I'll stay here till he's out of danger."

That was a terrible week on old Hector. The nurse, discovering that
his presence appeared to excite her patient, forbade him the room; so
he spent his days and part of his nights prowling up and down the
corridor, with occasional visits to the mill office and The Dreamerie,
there to draw such