THE CURE
It was noon when Harding returned to camp, ragged and exhausted, with
Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The latter
had suffered badly from the hurried march, but his conductor would
brook no delay and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to
the utmost exertion he was capable of. Blake was alive, but when
Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin
looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick strong
hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and
unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.
"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to
cure him, and you had better get to work at once." Then his face grew
troubled as he asked Benson: "How long has he been like that?"
"The last two days," said Benson. "I'm afraid he's very bad."
Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache,
he could scarcely hold himself upright, and his heart was heavy. He
would miss Blake terribly; it was hard to think of going on without
him, but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep
pity for the helpless man, but after a few moments his weary face grew
stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he
believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he
were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.
"Had you much trouble?" Benson asked as he laid out a meal.
"No," said Harding; "I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was
surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."
"Then I don't see how you overcame his objections."
Harding broke into a dry smile. "In the kind of game I played with the
doctor your strength depends upon how much you're willing to lose, and
I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't
willing to stake as much."
"You mean your life?" said Benson. "I've no doubt you were in some
danger, but was it so serious?"
"It would have been if I'd shot him, and I think he saw I meant that.
What's more, I may have to do so yet."
Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer
wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced
grave risks, but he was inclined to think that even before he had
weakened it by excess his nerve had never been so good as this city
drummer's.
"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake and recognize my debt to him, while
we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than
this, but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you.
In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a
trap for us, but if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him
something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."
He called Clarke, who had been busy examining Blake, to join them by
the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face and
there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted
and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his
look. He ate greedily without speaking, and then glanced up at the
others.
"Well," said Benson, "what's your opinion?"
"Your friend's state is dangerous, and he was right in his conclusions
about what was the matter with him. How he came to suffer from a
severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate I can't determine, and
after all it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at
his present temperature."
"And the remedy?"
"One of two is indicated, and the choice is difficult, because both are
risky."
"Then they're risky to you as well as to your patient," Harding grimly
reminded him.
Clarke made a contemptuous gesture which was not without a touch of
dignity. His manner was now severely professional.
"One course would be to put him into the coldest water we can find;
it's drastic treatment and sometimes effective, but there's a strong
probability of its killing him."
"You had better mention the other."
"The administration of a remedy of my own, which I'll admit few doctors
would venture to use. It's almost as dangerous as the first course,
and in case of success recovery is slower."
Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man and
believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he
consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the
contrary.
"I must leave you to decide, but if the result's unfortunate I'll hold
you responsible," he said.
"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith why do you put your
partner in my charge?"
"I've some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding
rejoined. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."
After giving him a curious glance Clarke got up. "I'll try the
draught, and it had better be done now. There is no time to lose."
He moved towards Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with
apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping
beside him, he took out a very small bottle, and after carefully
letting a few drops fall into a spoon, with some trouble got the sick
man to swallow them. Then he sat down and turned to Harding.
"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able
to form some opinion."
Harding lighted his pipe and though he found it strangely hard to sit
still smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was
bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied and bit savagely on its
stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he
could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a
daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love
the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the
obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humour had lightened the
toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out he had
banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would
hear his cheerful laugh no more, and Harding felt that if the worst
came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It
was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.
Benson, who seemed to find the suspense equally trying, made no remark,
and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impassive face.
Harding could only wait with all the fortitude he could muster, but he
long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still;
there was no wind, a heavy grey sky overhung them, and the smoke of the
fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through
the silence. At length, when Harding felt the tension becoming
unendurable, Clarke, who glanced at his watch, reopened the small
bottle.
"We'll try again," he said gravely, and Harding thought he detected
anxiety in his tone.
The dose was given and Harding, feeling the urgent need of action if he
were to continue calm, got up and wandered about the muskeg. Coming
back after a time, he looked at Clarke, who merely shook his head,
though his face now showed signs of uneasiness. Harding sat down again
and refilled his pipe, noticing that the stem was nearly bitten
through. He gathered from the doctor's expression that they would soon
know what to expect and he feared the worst. Now, however, he was
growing cool; his eyes were very stern and his lips had set in an
ominously determined fashion. Benson, who glanced at him once or
twice, thought it boded trouble for the doctor if things went badly.
The American had a ruthless air.
At length Clarke, moving silently but quickly, bent over his patient,
felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing; and Harding leaned
eagerly forward. Blake seemed less restless, his face, which had been
furrowed, was relaxing; there was a faint damp on it. He moved and
sighed, but the sigh was somehow reassuring, and then turning his head
weakly, closed his eyes. A few moments later Clarke stood up,
stretching out his arms with a gesture of deep weariness.
"I believe your partner has turned the corner," he said. "He must
sleep as long as he is able."
Harding crept away, conscious of a relief so overpowering that he was
afraid he might do something foolish and disturb his comrade if he
remained. Scarcely noticing where he was going, he plunged into the
swamp and ploughed through it, smashing down the reeds and splashing in
the pools. Quick movement was balm to his raw-edged nerves, for the
suspense of the last two hours had tried him very hard. When he
returned to camp, rather wet and muddy, Clarke, who made him a sign
demanding silence, was sitting by his patient's side, and Harding saw
that Blake was sound asleep. Then with a sense of thankfulness too
deep for expression he set about preparing the evening meal. Now he
could eat with appetite.
Before he and Benson had finished their repast Clarke joined them and,
answering a question, said, "I believe the worst danger's over, though
there's a possibility of a relapse. He'll need careful attention for
several days."
"Longer I think," said Harding. "Anyhow, you'll have to make up your
mind to stop while it strikes us as necessary."
"My time's valuable and you run some risk in keeping me. You must
recognize that there's a likelihood of the Stonies picking up my trail."
"If they get here, they'll run up against all the trouble they'll have
any use for," Harding rejoined. "However, I told our guide, who seems
pretty smart at such matters, to take precautions, and I understand he
fixed things so it would be hard to follow our tracks. You may
remember that he took us across all the bare rocks he could find and
made us wade up a creek. Besides, as you seem to have played on your
friends' superstitions, they mayn't find anything remarkable in your
disappearing mysteriously."
"You're a capable man," Clarke told him with an air of resignation.
"Anyway, I find this case appeals to my professional interest. For one
thing, it's curious that the malaria should attack him in a severe form
after a lengthy absence from the tropical jungles where he caught it.
By the way, how long is it since he left India?"
Harding shrewdly returned an evasive answer. He did not think it
desirable that Clarke should learn too much about his comrade's
connexion with India.
"I can't fix the date, but it's some time. However, I understand he
was afterwards in an unhealthy part of Africa, which may account for
the thing. I don't think he's been in this country more than a year or
two."
"Did he ever speak of having malaria here? It is apt to return within
a rather elastic period."
"Not so far as I can recollect," said Harding.
Seeing that he could extract no useful information from him, Clarke
abandoned the attempt and discussed the case from a medical point of
view. Then he said, "As we're not out of the wood yet, and I don't
expect I'll be needed for a while, I'd better get some sleep. You must
waken me if there's any sign of a change."
Drawing his blanket round him, he lay down on a bed of branches and
reeds and when his deep, regular breathing indicated that he was asleep
Harding looked at Benson.
"I guess he'll do all that's possible, for his own sake. It strikes me
he's a pretty good doctor."
"I understand he once promised to become a famous one," Benson replied.
"Though I left you to deal with the matter, I kept my eye on him, and
my idea is that while he wouldn't have scrupled much about letting
Blake die if it had suited his purpose, as soon as you showed him the
danger of that course his professional feelings came uppermost. In
fact, I believe Blake couldn't have got better treatment in Montreal or
London. Now the fellow has taken his case up, he'll make a cure. But
I'll keep the first watch; you need a rest."
In a few minutes Harding was fast asleep and when he relieved Benson
late at night he found Clarke at his post. Shortly afterwards Blake
opened his eyes and asked a few intelligent questions in a weak voice
before he went to sleep again. Next morning he was obviously
improving, but although a strong man often recovers rapidly from an
attack of malarial fever, Clarke stayed several days and gave Harding a
number of careful instructions on parting.
"I don't think that can do much harm," said Harding, looking him in the
face.
"Your suspicions die hard," Clarke rejoined with a mocking laugh.
"That's so," said Harding coolly. "As soon as you leave this camp I
lose my hold on you. However, I've given you the Indian as guide, and
he'll see you safe to about a day's march from your friends' village,
and I've put up food enough for the journey. Considering everything,
that's all the fee I need offer you."
"There wouldn't be much use in urging my claim," Clarke acquiesced.
"Then what about Benson? I noticed you didn't seem particularly
anxious to renew your acquaintance. Are you willing to leave him with
us?"
Clarke smiled in an ironical manner. "Why do you ask, when you mean to
keep him? So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to the man; I make
you a present of him. Have you had enough of this trip yet, or are you
going on?"
"We're going ahead; you can do what you like about it. And now, while
I admire the way you pulled my partner through, there's not much more
to say. I wish you a safe journey and good-morning."
He waved his hand and turned back towards the fire, while Clarke,
following the Indian, moved forward across the muskeg. A week later
they broke camp and, finding a somewhat better path along the hillside,
went on by easy stages towards the north.