“Well, Jack, what do you say to all this?” said Sir John.
“I don’t know what to say, father,” replied the lad. “I did not know I was unwell.”
“I suppose not,” interposed the doctor. “But you are, and the worst of it is that you will get worse.”
“Then give your instructions,” said Sir John, “and we will try and follow them out—eh, Jack?”
“I will do anything you wish, father,” said the boy, with a sigh.
“Yes, of course you will, my boy. Well, doctor, we are waiting. Let’s take the stitch in time.”
“Ah! but we can’t now,” said Doctor Instow. “We shall have to take nine, or eighty-one, or some other number in what our young philosopher calls geometrical progression—that’s right, isn’t it, Jack, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said the lad, smiling. “Well, then, thread the needle for us, Instow,” said Sir John merrily; “and we will begin to stitch, and be careful not to neglect our health for the future. Now then, we’re both ready.”
“Yes; but I’m not,” said the doctor thoughtfully. “This is a ticklish case, and wants ticklish treatment. You see I know my patient. He is so accustomed to one particular routine, that it will be hard to keep him from longing for his customary work and habits. Suppose I prescribe outdoor work, riding, walking, cricket or football, according to the season; I shall be giving him repellent tasks to do. I can’t make him a little fellow eager and longing to begin these things which he sees his bigger school-fellows enjoying. He would be disgusted with games directly, because others would laugh at him and call him a muff.”
“Yes,” said Sir John with a sigh, “the rent has grown very large, and I don’t see how we are to sew it up.”