Тридцять дев’ять ступенів

           Ihadlostallcountofthedays.SotheSabbathwasthereasonforthisstrangedecorum.

           MyheadwasswimmingsowildlythatIcouldnotframeacoherentanswer.Butherecognizedme,andhesawthatIwasill.

           “Haeyegotmyspecs?”heasked.

           Ifetchedthemoutofmytrouserpocketandgavehimthem.

           “Ye’llhaecomeforyourjaicketandwestcoat,”hesaid.“Comein-bye.Losh,man,ye’reterribledunei’thelegs.HauduptillIgetyetoachair.”

           IperceivedIwasinforaboutofmalaria.Ihadagooddealoffeverinmybones,andthewetnighthadbroughtitout,whilemyshoulderandtheeffectsofthefumescombinedtomakemefeelprettybad.BeforeIknew,MrTurnbullwashelpingmeoffwithmyclothes,andputtingmetobedinoneofthetwocupboardsthatlinedthekitchenwalls.

           Hewasatruefriendinneed,thatoldroadman.Hiswifewasdeadyearsago,andsincehisdaughter’smarriagehelivedalone.

           ForthebetterpartoftendayshedidalltheroughnursingIneeded.Isimplywantedtobeleftinpeacewhilethefevertookitscourse,andwhenmyskinwascoolagainIfoundthatthebouthadmoreorlesscuredmyshoulder.Butitwasabaddishgo,andthoughIwasoutofbedinfivedays,ittookmesometimetogetmylegsagain.

           Hewentouteachmorning,leavingmemilkfortheday,andlockingthedoorbehindhim;andcameinintheeveningtositsilentinthechimneycorner.Notasoulcameneartheplace.WhenIwasgettingbetter,heneverbotheredmewithaquestion.