By and by he recognized Paloma and Mrs. Strange, and
tried to talk to them, but the connection between brain and tongue
was imperfect, and he made a bad business of conversation. It
seemed queer that he should be in bed at the Joneses', and almost
ludicrous for Mrs. Strange to support him while Paloma fed him. In
the effort to understand these mysteries, he dozed again. After
interminable periods of semi-consciousness alternating with
complete oblivion, he roused himself to discover that it was
morning and that he felt better than for weeks. When he had
recovered from his surprise he turned his head and saw Mrs.
Strange slumbering in a chair beside his bed; from her
uncomfortable position and evident fatigue he judged that she must
have kept a long and faithful vigil over him.
A little later Paloma, pale and heavy-eyed, stole into the room,
and Dave's cheerful greeting awoke Mrs. Strange with a jerk.
"So! You're feeling better, aren't you," the latter woman cried,
heartily.
"Yes. How did I get here?" Dave asked. "I must have been right
sick and troublesome to you."
Paloma smiled and nodded. "Sick! Why, Dave, you frightened us
nearly to death! You were clear out of your head.
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