"Why?" I cried. "Do you think I ought to send for them?"
"Send for them?" he echoed. "_Send for them?_ And you in the grip of
C.S.M.! It would be sheer madness--murder!"
The cold sweat stood out upon my brow but I kept my head.
"Have an apple, won't you, Mr. Burnett?"
He selected the largest and began to munch it in silence--silence,
that is, as far as talking was concerned.
"Tell me," I stammered; "wh--what is C.S.M.? And may I have a look at
myself?"
He cogitated. "Shall I?" he muttered. "Yes, I think he ought to know."
Then quite quietly, accompanied by the core of the apple, there fell
from his lips the fatal words "Cerebro-spinal meningitis."
At the same time he handed me the glass and selected the next best
apple.
I looked at myself. My hair stood straight on end; my face was
whitish-yellow, my eyes blazed with unmistakable fever. A three-days'
beard enhanced the horrible effect.
"Have you any pain--there?" One of his large soft hands gripped my
side and pinched it hard, the other selected the third best apple.
"Yes," I groaned, "I _had_ pain there."
"Ah!" he shook his head. "And there?" He sat down heavily on my right
ankle. He is a ponderous man.
"Agony," I moaned.
"Ah! And something throbbing like a gong in the brain?" he inquired,
tapping me on the head with the metal mirror.