“Lower away!” said Joe; and he drew softly back till the pillow was in its old place, and the Major uttered a sigh of relief.
“I say, dad, you’re getting better,” said Joe, as he took away chair and glass after brushing his disordered hair from his forehead.
“How dah you, sir!” cried the Major, “when I’m in such a state of prostration!”
Joe laid his hand on the patient’s forehead again, and nodded.
“Head’s getting wet and cool, dad. You’ll be right as a trivet again soon.”
“Worse than your poor mother—worse than your poor mother. You haven’t a bit of feeling, boy. It’s abominable.”
Joe took a sprayer, thrust it into the neck of the scent bottle, and blew an odorous vapour about the sufferer’s head.
“Will you put that tomfool thing away, sir! You’re never happy unless you’re playing with it.”
“I say,” cried Joe, still without seeming to pay the slightest heed to his father’s words—“what do you think, dad?”
“Think, sir? How can I think of anything but this wretched jungle fever. Oh, my bones, my bones!”