Adrian got Benson on his feet. The heavy butler was disposed to summon all the commiseration he could feel for his bruised flesh. Every half- step he attempted was like a dislocation. His groans and grunts were frightful.
"How much did that hat cost, Benson?" said Adrian, as he put it on his head.
"A five-and-twenty shilling beaver, Mr. Hadrian!" Benson caressed its injuries.
"The cheapest policy of insurance I remember to have heard of!" said
Adrian.
Benson staggered, moaning at intervals to his cruel comforter.
"He's a devil, Mr. Hadrian! He's a devil, sir, I do believe, sir.
Ooogh! he's a devil!—I can't move, Mr. Hadrian. I must be fetched. And
Dr. Clifford must be sent for, sir. I shall never be fit for work again.
I haven't a sound bone in my body, Mr. Hadrian."
"You see, Benson, this comes of your declaring war upon Venus. I hope the maids will nurse you properly. Let me see: you are friends with the housekeeper, aren't you? All depends upon that."
"I'm only a faithful servant, Mr. Hadrian," the miserable butler snarled.
"Then you've got no friend but your bed. Get to it as quick as possible,
Benson."
"I can't move." Benson made a resolute halt. "I must be fetched," he whinnied. "It's a shame to ask me to move, Mr. Hadrian."