"Is anything the matter with you, Frank?" Mr. Goodenough asked that evening.

"I don't know, sir. My head feels heavy, somehow, and I am giddy."

Mr. Goodenough felt his pulse.

"You have got your first touch of fever," he said. "I wonder you've been so long without it. You had better lie down at once."

A quarter of an hour afterwards Frank was seized with an overpowering heat, every vein appearing to be filled with liquid fire; but his skin, instead of being, as usual, in a state of perspiration, was dry and hard.

"Now, Frank, sit up and drink this. It's only some mustard and salt and water. I have immense faith in an emetic."

The draught soon took its effect. Frank was violently sick, and the perspiration broke in streams from him.

"Here is a cup of tea," Mr. Goodenough said; "drink that and you will find that there will be little the matter with you in the morning."

Frank awoke feeling weak, but otherwise perfectly well. Mr. Goodenough administered a strong dose of quinine, and after he had had his breakfast he felt quite himself again.