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"If the fever was as rotten in you as me, you'd understand," the mate whimpered. "I ain't kickin'," Griffiths answered. "I only wisht God'd send me a drink, or a breeze of wind, or something. I'm ripe for my next chill to-morrow." The mate proffered him the quinine. Rolling a fifty-grain dose, he popped the wad into his mouth and swallowed it dry. "God! God!" he moaned.
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