“Yes, don’t move, Edward,” said Sir John warmly. “I am very very thankful to see you so much better.”
“Thankye, Sir John. It’s very good of you to say so. But I can’t stop here in your way. Seems as if I was shamming ill like so as to get waited on: and if there’s anything I hate it’s that. Don’t seem nat’ral, Mr Jack, sir.”
“Now lie still and be silent,” said the doctor sharply. “Your tongue’s running nineteen to the dozen, and it will not do your arm any good.”
“But really, sir,” protested Ned, “if you’d put on a couple of good round pieces of sticking-plaster, and let me wear it in a sling for a day or two, it would be all right.”
“Will you hold your tongue, sir, hang you!” cried the doctor sharply. “I’d better put a bit of sticking-plaster on that. Do you think I want you to teach me my profession as a surgeon?”
“No, sir; beg pardon, sir.”
“Silence, sir!”
Ned screwed up his mouth and his eyes as well. “Now, Jack, my lad,” said the doctor, “I can’t afford to have you ill too. Go to your room, undress and get into bed.”
“Doctor! Now?”
“Yes, my lad, now. You went through a terrible day of excitement yesterday, and you have not stirred from this poor fellow’s side all night.”