The quiet,
steady eyes resting upon him told that the delirium had passed.
"Pretty nearly all in, wasn't I?" the young man said.
The answer of Gid Holt was an odd one. "Yep. Seven--eleven--fifteen.
Take 'er easy, old man," he said in his shrill, high voice as he moved
toward the man in the blankets. Then, in a low tone, while he pretended
to arrange the bedding over the stranger, he asked a quick question.
"Are you Elliot?"
"Yes."
"Don't tell them. Talk football lingo as if you was still out of your
haid." Holt turned and called to Dud. "Says he wants some breakfast."
"On the way," the cook answered.
Holt seemed to be soothing the delirious man. What he really said was
this. "Selfridge has arranged a plant for you at Kamatlah. The camp has
been turned inside out to fool you. They've brought me here a prisoner
so as to keep me from telling you the truth. Pst! Tune up now."
Big Bill had put down his axe and was approaching. He was not exactly
suspicious, but he did not believe in taking unnecessary chances.
"I tell you I'm out of training. Played the last game, haven't we? Come
through with a square meal, you four-flusher," demanded Elliot in a
querulous voice.
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