“Ah, that’s what you think, my dear boy,” said the Major, yawning, and shooting his glass out of his eye. “That’s what you think. Now, if you were to pull yourself together and make up your mind to get well you’d soon master that weakness.”
“Do you think I’m shamming, then, sir?”
“Well, no, my dear boy,” said the Major, stretching the string of his eyeglass as he picked it up, and then giving the latter a polish with his handkerchief before proceeding to stick it into its place; “I don’t think you are shamming, but that you are in a weak state, and consequently have become hypochon—what you may call it. If you were to—”
Flick! and a sudden jump of the Major to his feet, as he turned sharply to look down at Bracy.
“Confound you, sir! What do you mean by that?”
“Mean by—mean by what?” stammered Bracy, who lay perfectly motionless, with his arms by his sides.
“Mean by what, sir? Why, by striking at my eyeglass and sending it flying.”
“No, Major; no, I assure you I—”
“Don’t prevaricate with me, sir. There’s the string broken, and there’s the glass yonder. I—I can forgive a certain amount of irritability in a sick man; but this is impish mischief, sir—the action of a demented boy. How dare you, sir? What the dickens do you mean?”
“Major, I assure you I wouldn’t do such a thing,” cried Bracy wildly.