I wish I'd get sick again." The week dragged on.

The hotel was full, and extra "fancy starch" poured in upon them.

They performed prodigies of valor.

They fought late each night under the electric lights, bolted their meals, and even got in a half hour's work before breakfast.

Martin no longer took his cold baths.
Every moment was drive, drive, drive, and Joe was the masterful shepherd of moments, herding them carefully, never losing one, counting them over like a miser counting gold, working on in a frenzy, toil-mad, a feverish machine, aided ably by that other machine that thought of itself as once having been one Martin Eden, a man.
But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think.