“Think I'm sick, don't you?” he asked.
“You certainly are,” I answered.
“Well, I'm not.”
For a moment silence. I glanced at Hobart. Hobart nodded.
“You're just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy,” I said. “I'm going to see that you have one. Bed for you, and the care of mother—”
He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.
“That's it, Harry; that's what I wanted. It's so hard for me to think. Mother, mother! That's why I came downtown. I wanted a friend. I have something for you to give to mother.”
“Rats,” I said. “I'll take you to her. What are you talking about?”
But he shook his head.
“I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry. But it's no use—not after tonight. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm not sick, boys, far from it.”