Zaidos’ method of punishing Velo for the yarn he had told the doctor took the form of an exaggerated gratitude. Being perfectly independent of praise himself, Zaidos could not understand why on earth Velo should have taken the trouble to misrepresent things so. As far as Zaidos could see, there was nothing to be gained by it. The incident was past and did not concern the doctor in any way. Zaidos, who did not know his cousin at all, had yet to learn that his was one of the natures that are incapable of any noble effort, yet which feed on praise. With Velo everything was personal. If he passed a beautiful woman driving in the park, he thought instantly, “Now if that horse should run away, and I should leap out and grasp the animal by the head, wouldn’t that be fine? I would doubtless be dashed to the pavement a few times, but what of that?” He could almost hear the lovely lady, pale and shaken, as she thanked her noble preserver and pressed into his hand a ring of immense value. The lovely lady was always a Countess at least, and frequently a Princess.
Velo imagined drowning accidents, and fires where he dashed the firemen aside, and made thrilling rescues of other lovely ladies who were seen hanging out of high windows. Velo himself always came out unhurt and with his clothes nicely brushed and in order. Sometimes he imagined a slight, very slight cut on his forehead, which had to be becomingly bandaged, but that was always the extent of his injuries. Velo liked to imagine bandits, too; big, ferocious fellows whom he outwitted, or choked into insensibility in single combat. At a moving-picture show, he always sat in a delicious dream, admiring his own exploits as the pictures flashed on the screen.
Thus it was perfectly natural and simple for him to take the adventure of the previous day, and twist it to his own glorification.
To Zaidos this would have been such an impossibility that he simply could not have understood it at all, even if someone had explained Velo’s way of looking at things.
To Zaidos the only possible or natural way to look at things was to do whatever came up for a fellow to do, and to do it as soon and as well as he possibly could. Not knowing Velo, he did not dream that he was in the habit of glorifying himself on every possible occasion. If he had, he would have pressed a little harder. As it was, he drove Velo into a cold fury by his sweet, humble gratitude.
“Oh, Velo,” he would say, “whenever I think how you wrenched my hands from the rail, and forced me into the water, and swam with me to safety, I don’t see how I will ever thank you!”
Then he would get out the square of antiseptic gauze the nurse had given him for a handkerchief and cry into its folds as loudly as he dared.
Zaidos had to take medicine to keep down fever, so there were two bottles on the tiny table beside him. He had to take a dose every hour. Once he woke up, and took the bottle in his hand and started to pour it out just as the nurse came past. She gave a look at the bottle, smothered a cry, and snatched it from Zaidos’ hand. She was pale.
“How—where—when did you get that?” she stammered.
“What’s the matter with it?” asked Zaidos. “Isn’t it my medicine? I’ve been taking it all the time, haven’t I?”