'Come in-bye.
Losh, man, ye're terrible dune i' the legs.

Haud up till I get ye to a chair.' I perceived I was in for a bout of malaria.

I had a good deal of fever in my bones, and the wet night had brought it out, while my shoulder and the effects of the fumes combined to make me feel pretty bad.
Before I knew, Mr Turnbull was helping me off with my clothes, and putting me to bed in one of the two cupboards that lined the kitchen walls.
He was a true friend in need, that old roadman.

His wife was dead years ago, and since his daughter's marriage he lived alone.
For the better part of ten days he did all the rough nursing I needed.
I simply wanted to be left in peace while the fever took its course, and when my skin was cool again I found that the bout had more or less cured my shoulder.

But it was a baddish go, and though I was out of bed in five days, it took me some time to get my legs again.
He went out each morning, leaving me milk for the day, and locking the door behind him; and came in in the evening to sit silent in the chimney corner.