"No hospital for me," said Nicky-Nan, setting his jaw.
"Don't be a fool. I let slip in my haste that I don't reckon the thing malignant; and I don't—as yet. But it easily may be; and anyhow you're going to have trouble with it."
"I've had trouble enough with it already. But, mortal or not, I ben't goin' to stir out o' Polpier nor out o' this house. . . . Doctor, don't you ask it!" he wound up, as with a cry extorted by pain.
"Why, man, what are you afraid of? An operation for that, what is it? A whiff of chloroform—and in a week or so—"
"But—," interrupted Nicky-Nan sharply, and again recollected himself. "To tell 'ee the truth, Doctor—that's to say, if what passes between patient an' doctor goes no farther—"
"That's all right. I'm secret as houses."
"To tell 'ee the truth, then, there's a particular reason why I don't want to leave Polpier—not just for the present."
Dr Mant stared at him. "You are going to tell me that reason?"
But Nicky-Nan shook his head. "I'd rather not say," he confessed lamely.
Still Dr Mant stared. "Look here, Nanjivell. You've a beast of a lump on your leg, and I can certify at once that it unfits you for service. You couldn't even crawl up a ladder aboard ship, let alone work a gun. But the people over at Troy have asked the question; and, what is more, it sticks in my head that, two days ago, I got a letter about you—an anonymous letter, suggesting that you were just a malingerer, who nursed an ailment rather than go to the War and take your chance with the others. As a rule I put that kind of letter in the fire, and so I did with this one. As a rule, also, I put it right out of my head. . . . But I've a conscience, in these times; and if I thought you to be nursing a trouble which I pretty well know to be curable, just to avoid your honest share in this War—" Dr Mant paused.