“I don’t mind,” he said; “I’m dead sick of the whole business.”
“How do you know it’s consumption?” I asked at length.
“I went to three doctors to make sure; I tell you I don’t care.”
Little Penlow was listening now; before I could speak again he leaned
over and took Caithness’s hand affectionately.
“Brace up, old boy,” he said, “go to California and get well.”
“Of course,” I cried, “you’re a fool to stay in this cursed climate,
Caithness!”