Then he drew up the table beside Carrigan and proceeded to lay out
before him the boiled fish which St. Pierre's wife had promised
him. With it was bread and an earthen pot of hot tea.
"She say that ees all you have because of ze fever. Bateese say,
'Stuff heem wit' much so that he die queek!'"
"You want to see me dead. Is that it, Bateese?"
"OUI. You mak' wan ver' good dead man, m'sieu!" Bateese was no
longer grinning. He stood back and pointed at the food. "You eat--
queek. An' when you have finish' I tell you somet'ing!"
Now that he saw the luscious bit of whitefish before him, Carrigan
was possessed of the hungering emptiness of three days and nights.
As he ate, he observed that Bateese was performing curious duties.
He straightened a couple of rugs, ran fresh water into the flower
vases, picked up half a dozen scattered magazines, and then, to
David's increasing interest, produced a dust-cloth from somewhere
and began to dust. David finished his fish, the one slice of
bread, and his cup of tea. He felt tremendously good. The hot tea
was like a trickle of new life through every vein in his body, and
he had the desire to get up and try out his legs.
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