Chapter VIII

           OnacertainafternoonintheearlypartofJuly,aboutamonthafterthefightattheirrigatingditchandthemassmeetingatBonneville,Cedarquist,atthemomentopeninghismailinhisofficeinSanFrancisco,wasgenuinelysurprisedtoreceiveavisitfromPresley.

           “Well,uponmyword,Pres,”exclaimedthemanufacturer,astheyoungmancameinthroughthedoorthattheofficeboyheldopenforhim,“uponmyword,haveyoubeensick?Sitdown,myboy.Haveaglassofsherry.Ialwayskeepabottlehere.”

           Presleyacceptedthewineandsankintothedepthsofagreatleatherchairnearby.

           “Sick?”heanswered.“Yes,Ihavebeensick.I’msicknow.I’mgonetopieces,sir.”

           Hismannerwastheextremeoflistlessness—thelistlessnessofgreatfatigue.“Well,well,”observedtheother.“I’mrightsorrytohearthat.What’sthetrouble,Pres?”

           “Oh,nervesmostly,Isuppose,andmyhead,andinsomnia,andweakness,ageneralcollapseallalongtheline,thedoctortellsme.’Over-cerebration,’hesays;’over-excitement.’IfancyIrathernarrowlymissedbrainfever.”

           “Well,Icaneasilysupposeit,”answeredCedarquistgravely,“afterallyouhavebeenthrough.”

           Presleyclosedhiseyes—theyweresunkenincirclesofdarkbrownflesh—andpressedathinhandtothebackofhishead.

           “Itisanightmare,”hemurmured.“Afrightfulnightmare,andit’snotoveryet.Youhaveheardofitallonlythroughthenewspaperreports.