The air was growing cold and threatening bad weather.
He found the Doctor prostrate, wasted, hoarse, cross and almost too weak for speech.

He could only whisper, as his friend approached his pillow: "These vile lungs!" "Hemorrhage ?" The invalid held up three small, freckled fingers.
Joseph dared not show pity in his gaze, but it seemed savage not to express some feeling, so after standing a moment he began to say: "I am very sorry--" "You needn't bother yourself!" whispered the doctor, who lay frowning upward.

By and by he whispered again.
Frowenfeld bent his ear, and the little man, so merry when well, repeated, in a savage hiss: "Sit down!" It was some time before he again broke the silence.
"Tell you what I want--you to do--for me." "Well, sir--" "Hold on!" gasped the invalid, shutting his eyes with impatience,--"till I get through." He lay a little while motionless, and then drew from under his pillow a wallet, and from the wallet a pistol-ball.
"Took that out--a badly neglected wound--last day I saw you." Here a pause, an appalling cough, and by and by a whisper: "Knew the bullet in an instant." He smiled wearily.

"Peculiar size." He made a feeble motion.

Frowenfeld guessed the meaning of it and handed him a pistol from a small table.