Mrs. Greiffenhagen,
an impassioned pessimist, was of opinion that they couldn't last
another hour!
At nine, when our nerves had been strained to breaking-point, Ajax and
a big-bearded stranger galloped up to Greiffenhagen's house.
"It's Doc. Elkins, of San Lorenzy," said a hired man.
"The boys are sinking!" sobbed Mrs. Greiffenhagen. "Where is the
Professor?"
"I left him in San Lorenzo."
Elkins and Ajax rushed upstairs and into the Greiffenhagen bedroom.
Elkins glanced at Pete, felt his pulse, and then said deliberately--
"My man, you're dying of sheer funk! You've poisoned yourself with
nothing more deadly than good Kentucky whisky! In six hours you'll be
perfectly well again."
Pete heard, and pulled himself together. It struck him that this was
not the first time that he had felt nearly dead after imbibing much
whisky.
"But the Perfessor?" he asked feebly.
"Professor Adam Chawner," said Elkins in a clear voice, "is in a
strait-waistcoat at the County Hospital. He will get over this, but
not so quickly as you will. He is quite mad for the moment about a
deadly microbe which only exists in his imagination.
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