“Oh, they’re all right,” cried Bob; “leastways, not all right, but ever so much better. You’ve been by a long way the worst.”
“Then Mr Russell isn’t dead?” gasped Mark.
“Here, steady, my lad. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, tell me—tell me!” cried Mark, excitedly.
“Why, of course he isn’t. Now, don’t go on like that. Here, I’ll run for old Whitney.”
“No, no,” whispered Mark, clinging to his messmate’s arm. “I’m better now. I thought you told me that he was dead. It has worried me dreadfully.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t get all sorts of fancies in your head now it’s a bit weak. I don’t know about saying now it’s a bit weak,” said Bob, with a comical smile, “because you always were a soft-headed sort of fellow. That’s better. Now you’ve cooled down.”
“Yes,” said Mark, with a smile, “and I shall soon be better now.”
“That’s your style. All my doing. I say, Van, old chap, I’ll take to doctoring you now; so kick old Whitney over, and leave it to me. Russell says he shall come and see you soon—”
“I wish he would,” cried Mark.