“Yes. I never saw a worse.”
“Here,” cried the patient, with a hoarse roar. “Get some whisk’. Throat’s like—like—what you call it. Hullo, old mother ’Ampton, you there! Where’s old Saul?”
He burst out into an idiotic fit of laughter, and looked from one to the other.
“Where’s Gertie?” he cried at last; “where’s little lassie? Fesh her here. Got t’headache. She’s good f’readache. Curse you, what are you doing. Let’s get up.”
There was another fierce struggle, but the bandages held firm, and he lay panting for a time.
“Man must joy self sometimes. Ah, there you are, little one. It’s all right—it’s all right.”
His eyes closed, and he lay passive for quite a quarter of an hour, the doctor watching every change, and at last joining his entreaties to those of Mrs Hampton.
“You had better go, Gertrude, my dear. You can do no good. I shall stay here by him—perhaps all night. He’ll be better in the morning.”
“Never better to me,” thought Gertrude, as she looked wistfully in the doctor’s eyes. But she shook her head and intimated that she should stay.
“But it is not a fit scene for you, my child,” whispered Mrs Hampton tenderly.