One night Jim Travers talked a great deal in his sleep. His tossing awoke
Tom Gordon several times and caused him some anxiety, which was increased
when he touched his friend's cheek and found him suffering with a burning
fever. Toward morning Jim's restlessness partly subsided, and he fell into
a fitful slumber. Tom dropped off, and did not awake until he heard his
friend astir.
"What's the matter?" asked the elder, sitting up in bed and looking in a
scared way at Jim, who having partly dressed himself, was sitting on the
side of the couch.
"I don't know; I feel awful queer; my head is light; I saw father and
sister Maggie last night: did you see anything of them?"
"No; you were dreaming."
"They were here; father came in the room and looked at me, but did not
speak and went away, but Maggie took hold of my hand and asked me to go
with her. Wasn't it strange, Tom, that she should come back after all
these years? I saw her as plain as I do you."
Tom was frightened. Swallowing a lump in his throat, and hiding his
agitation as best he could, he said gently,--
"Jim, you are ill. Lie down on the bed again and I'll call Mrs. Pitcairn."
"I'm afraid there is something the matter with me," muttered the younger
lad, lying down, his face flushed and his eyes staring. He said something
which showed his mind was wandering and he had become flighty.
Tom hastily donned his clothing and hurried downstairs to the farmer's
good wife, who lost no time in coming to the room of the boys. By this
time Jim had lost all knowledge of his surroundings. He was muttering and
saying all sorts of strange things, speaking of his father, of his sister
Maggie, and even of his mother, who died when he was a very small boy.
Mrs. Pitcairn had no children of her own, but she had had great experience
in the sick-room. She saw, almost at a glance, that Jim Travers was
suffering from a violent and dangerous fever. She prepared him a bitter
but soothing draught of herbs, and told her husband a physician must be
brought without delay.
Farmer Pitcairn felt a strong affection for the two lads, whose singular
coming beneath his roof has been told. He was as much concerned as his
wife, and, harnessing his horse, drove off at a swift pace for the family
doctor, who appeared on the scene a couple of hours later.
"He is ill, very ill," said the physician; "his fever is of a typhus
character, though not strictly that. There has been considerable of it
this spring and summer in New York."
"Is it contagious?" asked the farmer.
"Somewhat; though it seems to be more of the nature of an epidemic; that
is, it travels through the air, appearing without special reason at one
place, and then at another. We have had three cases in the neighborhood
the past fortnight."
"What was the result?" asked Mrs. Pitcairn.
"One was Mrs. Wilson, an elderly lady; the other her grandson, and a
nephew of Mr. Chisholm," replied the doctor, not answering the question.
"What was the result?" repeated Mr. Pitcairn for his wife.
The doctor shook his head, and, with his eyes on the flaming face of Jim
Travers, whispered,--
"All three died within twenty-four hours after being taken."
Tom Gordon's eyes filled with tears.
"O Doctor! is it as bad as that?"
"I am sorry to say it is. We shall hope for the best with this young man.
Give him the medicine every hour, and I will call again this evening. You
have all been exposed to whatever danger there is in the air, so you need
not be alarmed."
"It wouldn't make any difference about that," said Tom; "I'm going to
stay with him, and do all I can. I don't care whether or not I catch the
fever."
"That is more creditable to your heart than your head. Don't forget," said
the doctor, speaking to all, "to watch yourselves closely. At the first
appearance of headache, ringing in the ears, and fever, take those powders
that I have left on the stand. This is one of the cases where an ounce of
prevention is worth a good many pounds of cure. Nothing more can be done
for the boy than to follow the prescription I have given you. I will be
here again in the evening, unless he should become much worse, when you
can send for me."
Tom Gordon will never forget that day and night. He refused to leave the
bedside of his friend except for a few minutes. The farmer and his wife
were equally faithful, and did all they could for the sufferer, whose
condition seemed to show a slight improvement toward the latter part of
the afternoon. So much so indeed that all felt hope.
Jim slept at intervals, but continually muttered and flung himself about.
There were flashes of consciousness, when he would look fixedly at those
around his bed, and smile in his winning way. He thanked them for their
kindness, and hoped he would get well; but he had never felt so strange.
It seemed as if his head was continually lifting his body upward, and he
was so light he could fly.
After lying this way for some minutes, his hand, which rested in that of
Tom's, would suddenly tighten with incredible strength, and he would rise
in bed and begin a wild, incoherent rambling, which filled the hearts of
the others with anguish.
It was just growing dusk, when Jim, who had exchanged a few words of sense
with his weeping friend, said, lying motionless on his pillow, and without
apparent excitement,--
"Tom, I'm dying."
"O Jim! don't say that," sobbed the broken-hearted lad. "You must get
well. You are young and strong; you must throw off this sickness: keep up
a good heart."
The poor boy shook his head.
"It's no use. I wish I had been a better boy; but I've said my prayers
night and morning, and tried to do as mother and father used to tell me to
do. Tom, try to be better; I tell you, you won't be sorry when you come to
die."
"No one could have been better than you, Jim," said the elder, feeling
more calmness than he had yet shown. He realized he was bending in the
awful shadow of death, and that but a few more words could pass between
him find the one he loved so well.
"I haven't been half as good as I ought to--not half as good as you, Tom."
"O Jim! you should not say that."
"He is right," whispered Mrs. Pitcairn, standing at the foot of the bed,
beside her husband; "he will be with us but a few minutes longer. How do
you feel," she asked gently, "now that you must soon go, Jim?"
"I am sorry to leave you and Tom, but it's all right. I see mother and
Maggie and father," he replied, looking toward the ceiling; "they are
bending over me, they are waiting to take my hand; I am glad to be with
them--Tom, kiss me good-by."
With the tears blinding his eyes, and holding the hot hand within his own
warm pressure, Tom Gordon pressed his lips on those of Jim Travers, and,
as he held them there, the spirit of the poor orphan wanderer took its
flight.
The door gently opened a minute later and the physician stepped inside.
One glance told him the truth.
"I knew it was coming when I looked at him this morning," he remarked, in
a soft, sympathetic voice. "Nothing could save him. How do you all feel?"
It seemed cruel to ask the question of the three all standing in the
presence of death; but it was professional and it was wise, for, by
pressing it, he withdrew their thoughts from the overwhelming sorrow that
was crushing them.
Tom Gordon had flung himself on the bed with uncontrollable sorrow. One
arm lay over the breast and partly round the neck of the body, which
breathed no longer, and whose face was lit up by a beatific smile; for Jim
Travers was with mother and Maggie and father, and they should go out no
more forever.