It was really for
little more than five seconds before he gathered his powers to say,
still between gasps—-
"Out all night-—the moraine-—fog-—snow-—Jock-—very bad-—Armine-—
worse-—up there."
"At Schwarenbach ?"
"Yes. Oh, come! They are so ill."
"I am sure Dr. Medlicott will do all he can for them," said another
voice, which John saw proceeded from a very tall, slight youth, with
a fair, delicate, girlish face. "Had he not better get into the
carriage and return to the hotel?"
"By all means."
And John found himself without much volition lifted and helped into
the carriage, where Cecil Evelyn scrambled up beside him, and put an
arm round him.
"Poor old Monk, you are dead beat," he said, as the carriage turned,
the other two walking beside it. "Did you come that pace all the way
down?"
"Only after the wood."
"Well, 'twas as plucky a thing as I ever saw. But is Skipjack so
bad?"
"Dreadful! Light-headed all yesterday-—horrid pain! But not so bad
as Armine. If something ain't done soon-—he'll die."
"Poor little Brownlow! You've come to the right shop. Medlicott is
first rate. Did you know it was we?"
"No-—only-—an English doctor," said John.
"Mother sent us abroad with him, because they said Fordham must have
Swiss air; and poor old Granny still goes on in the same state," said
Cecil.
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