The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper of some wounded amphibian.
"The jig 's up!" he said. The faint mockery of a smile wavered across the painfully gaunt face. It reminded the other man of heat-lightning on a dark skyline. "You got me, Jim. But it won't do much good. I 'm going to cash in."
"What makes you say that?" argued Blake, studying the lean figure. There was a look of mild regret on his own sodden and haggard face. "What 's wrong with you, anyway?"
The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke without looking at the other man.
"They said it was black- water fever. Then they said it was yellow-jack. But I know it 's not. I think it 's typhoid, or swamp fever. It 's worse than malaria. I dam' near burn up every night. I get out of my head. I 've done that three nights. That 's why the niggers won't come near me now!"
