"You had bettair come into de house now—night air werry bad for you," announced Carlos, as Walter sat up in the hammock and stared around him. "How feel now? weak?"
"I—I dreamed I was back on the Brooklyn and sailing for home," was the hesitating reply. "My head feels better, but I m afraid my legs have gone back on me," Walter went on, as on trying to stand he found he must support himself against the tree. "This is the queerest spell of sickness I ever had."
"Never mind—if only so be dat de fever is broken," said Carlos, seriously. "Come." And he about carried Walter into the hut. Usually negro huts in Cuba are dirty and full of vermin, but this was an exception. In her younger days, Josefina had worked for a titled lady of Santiago, and there had learned cleanliness quite unusual to those of her standing. In a corner of the hut was a pile of fresh sugarcane husks covered with a brown spread, and to this she motioned Walter, and here he rested until the following morning.
