“Oh yes, he’s ill, and getting worse. Any one can see that.”
“But I do not feel ill, father.”
“Don’t feel languid, I suppose?” said the doctor.
“Well, yes, I do often feel languid,” said Jack, “when the weather is—”
“Bother the weather!” roared the doctor. “What business has a boy like you to know anything about the weather? Your father and I at your age would have played football, or cricket, or gone fishing in any weather—eh, Meadows?”
“Yes, in any weather,” said Sir John, smiling. “A British boy knowing anything about the weather! Bosh! Do you think any of our old heroes ever bothered their brains about the weather when they wanted to do something? Look here! another word or two. You always go to sleep of course directly you lay your head on the pillow, and want another snooze when it’s time to get up, eh?”
“No,” said the lad sadly, “I often lie awake a long time thinking.”
“Thinking!” cried the doctor in tones of disgust. “The idea of a healthy boy thinking when he goes to bed! It’s monstrous. An overstrained brain, my lad. You are thoroughly out of order, my boy, and it was quite time that you were pulled up short. Frankly, you’ve been over-crammed with food to nourish the brain, while the body has been starved.”
“And now, my boy, we’re going to turn over a new leaf, and make a fresh start. Come, doctor, you will prescribe for him at once.”
“What! jalap and senna, and Pil. Hydrargerum, and that sort of stuff, to make him pull wry faces?”