“Then he has got his deserts,” were Henry's first words, after a pause of astonishment.
“Does that mean you forgive him, or you don't forgive him?”
“I dare say I should forgive the poor wretch, if he was to ask me.”
“And not without?”
“No. I might try and put it out of my head; but that is all I could do.”
“Is it true that you are the cause of his not being taken to the infirmary?”
“Yes, I said I'd pay out of my own pocket sooner; and I'm not the sort to go from my word. The man shall want for nothing, sir. But please don't ask me to love my enemies, and all that Rot. I scorn hypocrisy. Every man hates his enemies; he may hate 'em out like a man, or palaver 'em, and beg God to forgive 'em (and that means damn 'em), and hate 'em like a sneak; but he always hates 'em.”
The doctor laughed heartily. “Oh, how refreshing a thing it is to fall in with a fellow who speaks his real mind. However, I am not your enemy, am I?”
“No. You are the best friend I ever had—except my mother.”
“I am glad you think so; because I have a favor to ask you.”