“Oh no, my dear sir, I don’t think it is as bad as that. The boy has concussion of the brain, and he is a great deal hurt beside; but he is young and vigorous, and I think I may venture to say that we’ll pull him through. It would have killed you or me, but he is a boy accustomed evidently to a rough life.”
The Mackhai wrung his hand: he could not speak for a few minutes, and the doctor left him to go back to the bedside to replace the coverlid Kenneth had tossed off, but The Mackhai noted that the doctor was too late, for Max was performing this little office, and the father observed that the lad gently laid his hand upon his son’s brow.
“Of course you will stay and dine, Mr—?”
“Curzon,” said the doctor, smiling.
“Mr Curzon; and then see my boy again before you go?”
“My dear sir, I shall be very glad to do so; but I think, under the circumstances, I ought to stay the night.”
“Will you?” cried The Mackhai eagerly.
“With pleasure. I am down here fishing, and one place is the same to me as another. If I can serve you, I shall only be too glad.”
“My good sir,” cried The Mackhai, “you are taking a load off my mind! Pray, pray stay, and if you care to fish, my river and loch are at your service,—tackle, boats, keepers, everything,—while they are mine,” he added to himself.
“Then,” said the doctor, smiling, “I am your private medical attendant for the next week; and to-morrow, if you will send your boat for my traps from the hotel at Staffey—”