“Most of it,” was the confession. “But I shall be all right—if there is any pony I could ride upon.”
“You shall by-and-by; but first, Reeves,” as a servant with grizzled hair and moustache brought in a neatly-fitted medicine-chest, “I give this young gentleman into your care. He is to lie down on my bed for half an hour, and Mr. Evelyn is not to go near him. Then, if he is awake—”
“If—” ejaculated John.
“Give him a basin of soup—Liebig, if you can’t get anything here.”
“Liebig!” broke out John. “Oh, please take some. There’s nothing up there but old goat, and nothing to drink but milk and lemonade, like beastly hair-oil; and Jock hates milk.”
“Never fear,” said Dr. Medlicott; “Liebig is going, and a packet of tea. Mrs. Evelyn does not send us out unprovided. If you eat your soup like a good boy, you may then ride up—not walk—unless you wish to be on your mother’s hands too.”
“She’s my aunt; but it is all the same. Tell her I’m coming.”
“I shall go with you, doctor,” said Cecil. “I must know about Brownlow.”
“Much good you’ll do him! But I’d rather leave this fellow in Fordham’s charge than yours.”
So Johnny had no choice but to obey, growling a little that it was all nonsense, and he should be all right in five minutes, but that expectation continued, without being realised, for longer than Johnny knew. He awoke with a start to find the Liebig awaiting him; and Lord Fordham’s eyes fixed on him, with (though neither understood it) the generous, though melancholy envy of an invalid youth for a young athlete.