“Not much,” he said. “A fortnight’s quiet. Well, I think—My dear sir, are you mad?”
“I hope not,” said the injured man, sitting up. “There, don’t touch me, doctor. I can judge by my feelings that my case is not serious. When is the next down train?”
“In half an hour, sir,” said a fresh voice, and a man he had not seen came from behind the extemporised couch.
“Here, help me to put on my coat and waistcoat. Doctor, I’m much obliged for what you’ve done; but I was travelling special to a case of emergency. I must go on, if it kills me.”
“I will not be answerable for the consequences if you do,” the doctor said tartly. “Fever is almost certain to supervene if you exert yourself, and then I would not give that for your life.”
That was a snap of the fingers, evidently given to get rid of some snuff.
“Make me a sling for this arm,” said Tom; and one being extemporised with a handkerchief, he had to fight hard to master the faintness that kept attacking him; but he persevered—had the bandages on his head replaced by strapping where his hair had been cut away on account of a couple of ghastly cuts; and finally had himself led to the platform, where he sat down waiting.
Twice over the doctor tried to persuade him not to go; but he felt that he must, even at the risk of life; and at last, on the morning train coming up, he stepped in, feeling deathly sick and faint, and leaning back, reached Hastings at last, hardly able to crawl.
It was with a sense of dizziness that he could hardly counteract that he reached Richard Shingle’s house; and then once more he appeared to sink into a dreamy state, in which he was always hearing the words—“In the midst of life we are in death,” and then came a long blank.