CHAPTER V
Dr. Brewster received a call from his young assistant that same evening. He entered with a bored, blase air into the doctor's study, and stood staring, and, slapping his gloves together as if he had not one single idea in his noddle. Then he spoke.
"The old fellow—in Hitchen's Court, you know—beastly dirty hole, by the way—he needs looking after, wants a sunny room and good nourishment, and all that sort of thing. He'll get worse if he stays there. I'm going to take him to our hospital, if you don't mind."
"Take him?" the doctor chuckled.
The young man flushed, "Yes. Bah Jove! I can't see an old fellow like that, don't you know, dying for want of a little attention. Now, doctor, I'm no charity fiend, but—I say, what are you chuckling about?"
"At your past record in the matter of pet charities, and your open expressions regarding those who have them. Go on, Sig, my dear fellow. You said you'd take him."
The young man flung off his overcoat, displaying his evening dress and the flower in his button-hole. "Yes, I said take him—in my carriage to-morrow morning." He looked up, as if expecting protest.
"Bless you, man, I don't object if you don't," returned the older man. "He's an old fraud, doubtless, has no 'bronicles' to speak of, and wouldn't know 'yaller janders' from scarlet fever. Where do you purpose placing him?"
"In the pay ward," said the young doctor, defiantly.