“Lawk a deary me! Poor gentleman! he ’ave got it bad,” said the landlady, raising her hands.
“Yes, Mrs Pottles,” said the doctor, compressing his lips, “it is, I fear, a serious case. But we must do what we can, Mrs Pottles—we must do what we can.”
“Of course we must, sir!” exclaimed the landlady. “And what shall us do first?”
“Let me see; another pillow, I think, Mrs Pottles,” said the doctor, not heeding the question. “He will not be able to leave here for some time to come.”
Mrs Pottles sighed; and then from time to time supplied the doctor with bandages, water, sponge, and such necessaries as he needed; when, the patient presenting an appearance of recovering from his swoon, they watched him attentively.
“He won’t die this time, Mrs Pottles,” said the doctor, with authority.
“Lawk a deary me! no, sir, I hope not,” said the landlady—“a fine, nice, handsome young fellow like he! He’ll live and break some ’arts yet, I’ll be bound. It’s all very well for old folks like us, sir, to die; but I shouldn’t like to see him go that-a-way—just when out taking his pleasure, too.”
Mr Tiddson did not consider himself one of the “old folks,” so did not reply.
“A poor dear!” said Mrs Pottles. “I wonder who he is? There’ll be more ’n one pair o’ bright eyes wet because of his misfortun’, I know. You’ve no idee, sir, how like he is to my Tom—him as got into that bit of trouble with the squire, sir.”
“Pooh, woman!—not a bit. Tchsh!”