“It’s a knock-out, isn’t it,” said Joe, boisterously, “if a doctor goes round croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn’t it?”
The young doctor looked at him slowly.
“Anything the matter with you, then?” he asked sarcastically.
“Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why?”
“I thought you were very concerned about the patients, wondered if you might be one yourself.”
“Damn it, no, I’ve never been patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I never shall be,” returned Joe.
At this point Mabel rose from the table, and they all seemed to become aware of her existence. She began putting the dishes together. The young doctor looked at her, but did not address her. He had not greeted her. She went out of the room with the tray, her face impassive and unchanged.
“When are you off then, all of you?” asked the doctor.
“I’m catching the eleven-forty,” replied Malcolm. “Are you goin’ down wi’ th’ trap, Joe?”
“Yes, I’ve told you I’m going down wi’ th’ trap, haven’t I?”