“I daresay, my man,” said the surgeon sadly, “and so we all have; and I fear that when the day comes upon which we are called away, we shall have as much to do as ever.”
“But I’m so much better now; all but my head, sir, and I can’t quite think as I used to. Things bother me, and when I want to remember one particular matter, I get confused.”
“We shall put you all right this time, my man, and then start you off to make room for someone else. We don’t want a parcel of great lazy fellows here, fattening on our wine and jelly.”
Old Matt smiled grimly as he said: “I say, sir, is it really necessary?”
“Why, of course, my man. We did you a great deal of good last time, did we not?”
“Ye-e-e-s, yes,” said Matt; “you did, certainly, sir; but is it necessary that my poor old carcass should be touched again? It ain’t for the sake of experiment now, is it, sir? I’m afraid, you know, you’ll kill me; and, just for the sake of being fair, as you’ve had one turn at me, wouldn’t it be better to try it on someone else—on some other subject?” And “O, dear!” thought the old man to himself, “what a difference between a Queen’s subject and a doctor’s subject!”
“Pooh, nonsense, old friend!” said the surgeon, laughing; “we’ll make a man of you again; so cheer up, or you’ll be working your nerves too much. Why, you’ve picked up wonderfully this last day or two.”
“What’s the use of picking up, sir, if you get knocking me down again, eh, sir?”
The surgeon smiled and continued his round, and old Matt sat and grumbled by his bedside, for he was now up, and able to walk about the ward.
“Now let’s see,” muttered the old man. “I always did fancy, and it always seems so, that the more you try to think straightforward of a thing, the more it bothers you; so let’s try and get round to it back-way, if I can. Well, here goes. Now here’s Mr Septimus Hardon—a man—well, not clever, but what of that? I hate your clever men; they’ve no room to be amiable, or time to be generous. He’s a good one, and that’s sufficient. Well, he’s kept, say, for sake of argument, out of his rights by his rogue of an uncle. Now he proves his baptism and his father’s marriage, and then he wants to prove the date of his birth to have been after the marriage. Easy enough that seems; but how to do it when t’other party has took possession, and declares all the other way. Doctor’s books will do it, failing any other means; and as we do fail other means, why we want the doctor’s books. I tell you what it is; I believe we have both bungled the matter from beginning to end, and ought to have gone to a good lawyer. But there, what’s the good of talking? We had no money, and people without money always bungle things. Now where’s the doctor’s books, or the doctor? Doctor’s dead—safe; but then are his books dead—cut up—burnt? That’s the question. I say no, because I’m sure I saw that entry somewhere; and here’s the nuisance. When I was situated so that it would have been almost a blessing to be shut up here in hospital, I wasn’t ill; now I want all my energies, I’m chained by the leg. I’d give up bothering about the thing, but I’m sure I read it somewhere, and I’m sure, too, I recollected once where it was; and it was while I was so bad,” he said, pulling out his tattered memorandum-book, and referring to the hieroglyphics it contained. “No,” he said, after a long inspection; “I have read a good deal, and taken some copy in my time, but I never thought I should live to write stuff I couldn’t read myself. There, it’s of no use; it’ll come some day.” And he closed his eyes, and leaned his head upon his hand; for his brain seemed weary and restless with his long and painful illness.