A smile was accepted as a reply in the affirmative.
“We had better send for Dr. Scalpel,” observed a railway-porter to an agricultural labourer.
The poor fellow’s face betrayed signs of evident dissatisfaction. He dropped his head, as if fainting.
“We had better send for the doctor.”
“No,” escaped from the lips of the man upon the bed.
“What can we do?” exclaimed another of the party.
“Dr. Jones,” the wounded man hurriedly but faintly exclaimed.
“Can you tell us where he lives?”
No reply was immediately given; and as the poor fellow seemed unable to bear the weight of his own chest and brain, they laid his head upon the pillow.
The station-master, who had been awakened from his natural sleep, now entered the room; and having been informed what had taken place, he asked for the London Directory, which, by another happy circumstance, formed part of the furniture of the hotel. It was so discovered that in the street in which the poor fellow had been ascertained to dwell, one “Anthony Jones, M.R.C.S.,” also had a local habitation—about twenty doors from his own patient’s residence.