Here the boy busied himself for a few moments, with his father frowning and watching him angrily, and looking, in spite of his pain-distorted countenance, pallid look and sunken cheeks, a fine, handsome, middle-aged man.
The next minute Joe was coming back with a tumbler in his hand, and stirring it with a little glass rod.
“Here you are, dad. Shall I hoist you up while you tip it off?”
“No, sir; I can sit up. How much quinine did you put in?”
“Usual dose, father.”
“Ho! How much lemon juice?”
“Wineglass full, and filled up with spring water.”
Major Jollivet made an effort to sit up, but sank back again with a groan.
Joe might have smiled, but he did not. He could justly have said triumphantly: “There, I knew you could not manage it!” but he calmly drew a chair to the side of the couch, stood the glass within reach of his father’s hand, and then went behind his head, forced his arm under the pillow, lowered his brow so that he could butt like a ram, and slowly and steadily raised the invalid’s shoulders, keeping him upright till the draught had been taken and the glass set down.
“Bah! Horrible! Bitter as gall.”