“Ah-h-h! I see,” said the doctor, “that’s it, is it? Why how dense I am! Want to stop a few days, and be nursed, eh?”
Eaton nodded.
“Fair face to sympathise. White hands to feed you with a spoon. Oh, I say, Phil Eaton! No, no! I’ve got my duty to do, and I’m not going to back up this bit of deceit.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if there was anything to call for me, doctor,” pleaded Eaton; “but I am hurt, there’s no sham about that.”
“Well, no; you are hurt, my lad. That’s a nasty crack on the head, and your shoulder must be sore.”
“Sore!” said Eaton. “You’ve made it agonising.”
“Well, well, a few days’ holiday will do you good. But no; I’m not going to be dragged up here to see you.”
“I don’t want to see you, doctor. I’m sure I shall get well without your help. Pray don’t have me fetched down.”
“I say, Phil,” said the doctor; “look me in the face.”
“Yes.”