But Ned, though the movement caused him acute pain in his injured leg, struggled up on one arm and shook his head feebly.
“No, no,” he said, in a weak, husky voice; “I’m going to be ill, I know. Take me upstairs to my room, and put the dogs into the room on the opposite side of the landing.”
“Oh, come, we can’t have that. It wouldn’t be a proper arrangement at all—most unhealthy,” objected the doctor.
Ned glared at him, and instantly began to try, in a dogged manner, to get up.
“If you won’t do it, or let it be done, why, hang you! I’ll do it myself,” he panted out.
“I’ll do it, Mr. Mitchell,” said the girl’s clear voice.
Ned heard her go upstairs, soothing and encouraging the hounds, which scrambled and shuffled up after her.
“That’s a good plucky ’un,” he then remarked to the doctor.
And satisfied now that his savage pets were safely disposed of, he fell back on the doctor’s arm. For there was a curious buzzing noise in his ears, and his head felt alternately very heavy and very light. He wanted to keep his senses clear until the young girl should come down again, but it was only by a strong and exhausting effort that he succeeded. As soon as she reached the bottom stair, Olivia heard him addressing her in a faint voice.
“Thanks—thanks for what you’ve done. I’m not ungrateful. Now get me some one—to look after me—who’s got a little nerve. For I don’t care—how they treat me—but they must take care—of my dogs. For somebody wants to get at my dogs, I know. And they must be prevented—prevented. You’ll see to this. Promise me.”