He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still
in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was
white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move.
“What’s the matter, Schatz?”1
“I’ve got a headache.”
“You better go back to bed.”
“No. I’m all right.”
“You go to bed. I’ll see you when I’m dressed.” a
But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking
a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his
forehead I knew he had a fever.
“You go up to bed,” I said, “you’re sick.”
“I’m all right,” he said.
When the doctor came he took the boy’s temperature.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“One hundred and two.”