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" Despite his great anxiety, Reade could not suppress the smile that Jim's advice brought out. It was plain that Ferrers, good fellow as he was, would be of no use on the medical end of the fight that must be waged. Tom searched the chest and found the medicines. Then he looked up the doses and started to administer the remedies as directed. Even over the steadily increasing gale the notes of the supper horn reached them faintly. "It's too tough weather to expect the cook to bring the stuff over here tonight," said Jim. "So, if you can spare me, I'll go and eat with the boys. Then I'll bring your chuck over to you." Alf came out of his corner, pulling on the ragged overcoat that he had picked up in a trade with an undersized man down at the Bright Hope Mine. Left alone, Tom drew a stool up beside the bunk, and sat studying his chum's face. Twenty minutes later Hazelton opened his eyes. "You're feeling better, now, aren't you?" asked Tom hopefully. "I---I guess so," Harry muttered faintly. "Where does it hurt you most, chum?" "In---in my chest." "Right lung!" "Yes." "Is the pain severe, Harry?" "It's about all I can---can stand---old fellow." "Poor chap. Don't try to talk, now. We're taking good care of you, and we'll keep on the job day and night. You've had some medicine, though you didn't know it. Now, try to sleep, if you can." But Hazelton couldn't sleep. He tossed restlessly, his face aflame with fever. Jim Ferrers came back with the supper, but Reade could eat very little of it. Alf Drew did not return. He had made his peace with the workmen. Through the night Harry grew steadily worse. When daylight came in, with the blizzard still raging, the young engineer was delirious. CHAPTER XXI THE WOLVES ON THE SNOW CRUST The blizzard lasted for two days. Toward the end the temperature rose, with the result that three feet of loose snow lay on top of the harder packed snow underneath. Harry Hazelton had passed out of the delirium, but he was weak, and apparently sinking. He was conscious, though he spoke but little, nor did poor Tom seek to induce him to talk. By this time Reade knew the little medicine book by heart. He also knew the label and dose of every drug in the case. But he had not been able to improve upon his first selection of treatment. "Do you think he's going to die, Jim?" Tom frequently asked. "What's the use of a stro
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