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OOK at this, Doctor!” Claude caught Dr. Trueman on his way from breakfast and handed him a written notice, signed D. T. Micks, Chief Steward. It stated that no more eggs or oranges could be furnished to patients, as the supply was exhausted.

The doctor squinted at the paper. “I’m afraid that’s your patient’s death warrant. You’ll never be able to keep him going on anything else. Why don’t you go and talk it over with Chessup? He’s a resourceful fellow. I’ll join you there in a few minutes.”

Claude had often been to Dr. Chessup’s cabin since the epidemic broke out,—rather liked to wait there when he went for medicines or advice. It was a comfortable, personal sort of place with cheerful chintz hangings. The walls were lined with books, held in place by sliding wooden slats, padlocked at the ends. There were a great many scientific works in German and English; the rest were French novels in paper covers. This morning he found Chessup weighing out white powders at his desk. In the rack over his bunk was the book with which he had read himself to sleep last night; the title, “Un Crime d’Amour,” lettered in black on yellow, caught Claude’s eye. The doctor put on his coat and pointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were sometimes examined. Claude explained his predicament.

The ship’s doctor was a strange fellow to come from Canada, the land of big men and rough. He looked like a schoolboy,