“I hope so,” replied Chester, shortly.
“Thank God!” said the young man, warmly. “I say, doctor, don’t cut up rough. You’re in a hole, but I’ll see you’re all right. You’ll take a cigar?”
He said the last words so reproachfully that Chester could hardly forbear to smile; and he took a cigar, lit it, and then, feeling utterly exhausted, tossed off the coffee and brandy, after which he resumed his walk up and down by the couch.
“‘Needs must when the devil drives,’” he said to himself. “It’s of no use to fight. I must pull this poor fellow through, but I’ll make them pay for it. Seems like a dream. I suppose I am awake.”
The coffee and cigar were having their effect, and at the end of an hour, during which the party at the end of the table had been conversing in a low voice, a moan or two from the sufferer finished the tendency towards submission, and Chester busied himself for some time about the couch. Then, rising once more, “Pen and ink,” he said shortly, and the heavy-featured young fellow fetched him a blotting-case and inkstand.
“A telegraph form, too.”
“Plenty there, doctor.”
Chester wrote quickly for a few minutes, and then handed a couple of papers to the young fellow, who had stopped close at hand.
“I want this prescription made up at the chemist’s, and the telegram sent respecting a substitute to see my patients.”
“All right, doctor,” and the recipient took both to the end of the table, and gave them to the man who seemed to be his brother.