He was silent for a moment, steadfastly regarding the hand that stroked his wrinkled old paw so gently.
“If—if it should turn out to be pneumonia or lung fever, I wish you wouldn't let on to Joe,” said he anxiously. “It would worry him almost to death. He's not very strong, you see. Nothing like me. I'm as strong as a bull. Never been sick in my———”
“I know,” she said quietly. “He isn't half so strong as you, Mr Dawes. You are so strong you will be able to throw off this cold in a jiffy, as Jones would say. It won't amount to anything.”
“If I get much worse you'd better send me to a hospital. Awful nuisance having a sick man about the place. Spoils everything. Don't hesitate about sending me off, Mrs Brood. I wouldn't be a trouble to you or Jim for———”
“You poor old dear! You shall stay right where you are, no matter what comes to pass, and I shall take charge of you myself.”
“You?” She nodded her head briskly. “Well, by jiggers, I—I don't know what Joe'll say when I tell him this. Blast him; I'll bet my head he calls me a liar. If he does, blast him, I'll—oh, I beg your pardon! I don't seem to be able to get over the habit of———”
“Here is Mr Riggs—and my husband,” she interrupted, as the door opened and the two men strode into the room. “Is Jones telephoning?”
“Yes,” said Brood. “Why, what's gone wrong, old man?”
“It's all my fault,” groaned Mr Riggs, sitting down heavily on the opposite side of the bed. “I let him go out without his overcoat. He's not a strong man, Jim. Least breath of air goes right through——”
“See here, Riggs, you know better than that,” roared the sick man wrathfully. “I can stand more———”