“The question is not whether he can spare you, at all. It’s simply, can you spare him?”
“Without violating any pledge, you mean,” added Richling.
“Of course,” assented the physician.
“Well, I can’t spare him, Doctor. He has given me a hold on life, and no one chance in seven, or six, or five is going to shake me loose. Why, I tell you I couldn’t look Mary in the face!”
“Have your own way,” responded the Doctor. “There are some things in your favor. You frail fellows often pull through easier than the big, full-blooded ones.”
“Oh, it’s Mary’s way too, I feel certain!” retorted Richling, gayly, “and I venture to say”—he coughed and smiled again—“it’s yours.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” replied the unsmiling Doctor, reaching for a pen and writing a prescription. “Here; get that and take it according to direction. It’s for that cold.”
“If I should take the fever,” said Richling, coming out of a revery, “Mary will want to come to me.”
“Well, she mustn’t come a step!” exclaimed the Doctor.
“You’ll forbid it, will you not, Doctor? Pledge me!”