“Do you?”
“I don’t like,” said the boy gratuitously.
“Then we must stick to your excellent King’s English.”
Pocket turned a trifle sulky. He felt he had not scored in this little passage. Then he reflected upon the essential and extraordinary kindness which had brought him to a decent breakfast-table that morning. That made him ashamed; nor could he have afforded to be too independent just yet, even had he been so disposed in his heart. His asthma was a beast that always growled in the background; he never knew when it would spring upon him with a roar. Breakfast pacified the brute; hot coffee always did; but the effects soon wore off, and the boy was oppressed again, yet deadly weary, long before it was time for him to go to Welbeck Street.
“Is there really nothing you can take?” asked Dr. Baumgartner, standing over him in the drawing-room, where Pocket sat hunched up in the big easy-chair.
“Nothing now, I’m afraid, unless I could get some of those cigarettes. And Dr. Bompas would kick up an awful row!”
“But it’s inhuman. I’ll go and get them myself. He should prescribe for such an emergency.”
“He has,” said Pocket. “I’ve got some stuff in my bag; but it’s no use taking it now. It’s meant to take in bed when you can have your sleep out.”
And he was going into more elaborate details than Dr. Bompas had done, when the other doctor cut him short once more.
“But why not now? You can sleep to your heart’s content in that chair; nobody will come in.”