"Have you anything to eat in the cupboard?" asked Robert Grantham.
"There is a little bread and meat," said Rathbeal.
"He looks scarcely strong enough to be able to masticate hard food. Make some water hot, Rathbeal. I will go and get a packet of oatmeal; a basin of gruel will be the best thing for him."
"Wait a minute, Robert." Rathbeal devoted a few moments to the lad, and added gravely: "On the opposite side of the road, half a dozen doors down, there is a poor man's doctor. Ask him to come up at once and see the boy."
"I will;" and meeting Rathbeal's eyes, he said, "Do you fear there is any danger?"
"Yes. I have some medical skill, as you know; but I do not hold a diploma. It will be advisable that a doctor should see the poor boy."
Robert Grantham nodded, and took from his pocket all the money it contained--one sixpence and a few coppers. Rathbeal handed him five shillings.
"Thank you, Rathbeal," said Grantham, and ran down the stairs. In less than ten minutes he was back, with a packet of oatmeal, and accompanied by the doctor. While the doctor examined the lad, Rathbeal busied himself in the preparation of the gruel, the kettle, already nearly boiling, standing on a little gas-stove.
"Yes," said the doctor, noticing the preparation; "it will be the proper food to give him when he comes to his senses. Put a teaspoonful of brandy in it. A son of yours?"
"No," answered Grantham; "my friend, Mr. Rathbeal, has never seen him before. I found him in this condition in the street."