William drew out the envelope. "I've got a letter--"

Andy eyed it. "From that painter chap?"

"Well, not exactly. But it's about him. He's in a good deal of
trouble--"

"What's he been doin'?" demanded Andy.

"He's been bein' sick," said William, reproachfully.

"Oh!" Andy's face fell.

"He's sick now," went on Uncle William. He drew the letter from its
envelope. "He's feeling putty bad."

"What's the matter of him?" said Andy, gruffly.

Uncle William studied the letter.

"It's a kind o' fever--I guess--intermittent. Runs for a while, then
lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had it once--don't you
remember?--the whole crew, that time we broke down off Madagascar?
'Member how sick we felt?" Uncle William looked at him mildly.

Andy's eye was fixed on the bay. "How d' you know it's the same?" he
said.

"Well, I don't _know_ it's the same--not just the same, but she says--"