“But you've gone to bed, you old dear,” cried she, stroking his burning hand gently.
He was too astonished to say a word.
“Jumping Jees——” began Mr Riggs, completely staggered. “I mean, what doctor, Mrs Brood?”
“Jones will know. Now, Mr Dawes, you must do just as I tell you to do. You are nothing but a child, you know. If———”
“Hey, Joe!” called out the sick man desperately, but his comrade was gone. “Don't let him call a—doctor, Mrs Brood; please don't!” he implored.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his hand between her soft, cool palms, and smiled at him so tenderly that he stared for a moment in utter bewilderment and then gulped mightily. “Hush!” she said.
“I—I don't want to be sick here, bothering you and upsetting everything———” he blubbered.
“We will have you up and about in a day or two,” she said.
“But it's such an infernal nuisance. You oughtn't to be sitting here, either. It may be catching.”
“Nonsense! I'm not afraid.”