While the
majorful mother of six across the hall came in each night to sweep the
other two out, close the window and door, and fill the room with
eucalyptus fumes.
Quin let them do whatever they wanted. The mere business of breathing
seemed to be about all he could attend to these days. The only point on
which he was firm was his refusal to notify his friends or to have a
doctor.
"I'll be all right when this beastly weather lets up," he said to Dirks
one Sunday night. "Is there any sign of clearing?"
"Not much. It's thick and muggy and still raining in torrents. I wish
you'd see a doctor."
Pride kept Quin from revealing the fact that he had no money to pay a
doctor. Five weeks without work had completely exhausted his exchequer.
"I'm used to these knockouts," he wheezed with assumed cheerfulness one
Sunday night. "It's not half as bad as it sounds. I'll be up in a day or
so."
Dirks was not satisfied. His glance swept the small disordered room, and
came back to the flushed face on the pillow.
"Don't you want some grub?" he suggested. "I'll get you anything you
like."
"No, thanks; I'm not hungry. You might put the water-pitcher over here by
the bed.
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