"I have got it, John," he said, when the latter entered with a pile of blankets.
"Well, then, we have got to fight it, Master Cyril, and we will beat it if it is to be beaten. Now, lad, for the hot blanket."
"Lay it down on the bed, and I will wrap myself in it, and the same with the others. Now I warn you, you are not to come nearer to me than you can help, and above all you are not to lean over me. If you do, I will turn you out of the room and lock the door, and fight it out by myself. Now puff away at that pipe, and the moment you wrap me up get the room full of smoke."
John nodded.
"Don't you bother about me," he growled. "I reckon the Plague ain't going to touch such a tough old bit of seasoned mahogany as I am. Still, I will do as you tell me."
In a few minutes Cyril was in a profuse perspiration, in which even his head, which was above the blankets, shared.
"That is grand," John said complacently.
The cloud of tobacco, with which the room was soon filled, was not long in having the effect that John had predicted, and Cyril was soon violently sick, which had the effect of further increasing the perspiration.
"You must open the window and let the smoke out a bit, John," he gasped. "I can't stand any more of it."
This was done, and for another hour Cyril lay between the blankets.