Sometimes he spoke in Eskimo,
sometimes in English. "Father!" he would cry, "see this cod. He's a fine
one! We'll have a fine catch this season." And so he would ramble along
about the fishing for a time, and then perhaps grow silent, only to
resume, upon some other thought.
After each brief silence there was something new. Perhaps he was warning
Jimmy to run, or declaring that he knew he could get the bear if he only
had time to load. Or perhaps he was telling Mrs. Abel that he was tired,
oh, so tired, and begging her to sing a lullaby to him as she used to do
when he was little.
Skipper Ed, foreseeing this state of affairs, had removed his other
patients, who were now convalescing, to his own tent, where he gave them
strict instructions as to their conduct, and such casual attention as he
could. But for the most part he remained with Bobby. Indeed, during the
day and night of Bobby's delirium he scarcely left Bobby's side for an
instant. And more than once during this period of vigil and fear and
foreboding Skipper Ed fell upon his knees and poured out his soul to the
Great Master in an appeal for his young friend's life.
It was near sunrise on the second morning of his delirium that Bobby
suddenly ceased to speak and lay very quiet--so quiet that an awful
dread came into Skipper Ed's heart. He leaned over the still form and
with fearful apprehension listened for breathing that he could not hear,
and felt for heart beats that were too faint for his discovery.
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