“I will not have it touched,” cried Stratton decisively. “Now, once more. I am not much hurt. Go.”
Guest laughed bitterly.
“No, my boy, you don’t get rid of me. I’ll stick to you like your conscience.”
Stratton’s eyes dilated.
“And I’m going to be master here till you are well bodily and mentally.”
“I tell you I am not much hurt. Mentally! Pooh, I’m as well as you are.”
“Better, of course. Why, what nonsense you are talking!” cried Guest, pointing to the other’s wounded shoulder. “Come, don’t let us argue more. Give in sensibly, there’s a good fellow, and let me do my best for you. I know you see things in a wrong light now, but you’ll thank me some day.”
They watched each other furtively, and Guest could see how hard his friend was evidently planning to get rid of him, while, on his own part, he was calculating his chances. He knew that mad people were superhumanly strong, but then in spite of his conduct he could not in his own mind grant that Stratton was mad. It was a case of what coroners call “temporary insanity,” due to some trouble which had been kept hidden; and if there should be a struggle, Guest felt that he would be more than a match for his friend, injured as he was.
Stratton was the first to speak, in a low voice, which suggested his being faint and in great pain.
“Now I’m better. Will you go and leave me?”