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Dunbar, sir?" he cried. "I think he is dying."
"Dying?" Mr. Howland was out of his cot immediately and at Barry's side.
He found him fighting for breath, his eyes starting from his head, a
look of infinite distress on his face.
"My dear boy, what is it? Hobbs says you are dying."
"That con-con-founded--fool--shouldn't have--called you. I
forbade--him," gasped Barry.
"But, my dear boy, what is the matter? Are you in pain?"
"No, no,--it's--nothing--only an old--friend come back--for a call,--a
brief one--let us--hope. It's only asthma. Looks bad--feels worse--but
really--not at all dangerous."
"What can be done, my boy?" asked Mr. Howland, greatly relieved, as
are most laymen, when the trouble can be named. It is upon the terror
inspired by the unknown that the medical profession lives.
"Tell Harry--to make--a hot drink," said Barry, but Harry had already
forestalled the request, and appeared with a steaming bowl. "This
will--help. Now--go to--bed, Mr. Howland. Do, please.--You distress--me
by remaining--there.


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