“To do my duty, boy.”
“Of course you do; but don’t be so jolly fond of calling me boy. You said yourself a little while ago that you weren’t much older than I am. But, I say, you had better go now; and I suppose I oughtn’t to talk, for it makes my head turn swimmy, and we are wasting time; and—oh, Gray,” the boy groaned, “I—I can’t help it. I never felt so bad as this. There, do go now. Get the water, and if I am asleep when you come back, don’t wake me so that I feel the pain again. But—but—shake hands first, and say good-bye.”
The boy uttered a faint cry of agony as he tried to stretch out his hand, which only sank down helplessly by his side.
“Well, good-bye,” he panted, as Pen’s dropped slowly upon the quivering limb. “Well, why don’t you go?”
“Because it isn’t time yet,” said Pen meaningly, as after a glance round he drew some of the overhanging twigs of the nearest shrub closer together, and then passed his hand across the boy’s forehead, and afterwards held his wrist.
“Thank you, doctor,” said the boy, smiling. “That seems to have done me good. Now then, aren’t you going?”
“No,” said Pen, with a sigh.
“I say—why?”
“You know as well as I do,” replied Pen.
“You mean that you won’t go and leave me here alone? That’s what you mean.”