Aynsley thrust his hand into the pocket and brought out a small bottle.
“Six drops,” he read out and was about to lift his father’s head when Miss Dexter stopped him.
“No,” she said; “you’ll spill it. Wait for a spoon.”
She brought one and with some trouble they administered the dose. For a while there was no visible result, and then Clay sighed and with a slack movement changed his pose. A little later he opened his eyes and beckoned.
“The medicine!” Aynsley requested in a hoarse voice.
“No,” said Miss Dexter firmly. “He has had six drops.”
Aynsley yielded, for it was plain that his father was recovering. A moment later Clay raised himself in his chair and looked at Miss Dexter with a feeble, apologetic smile.
“Sorry I made this disturbance.”
“Are you feeling better?” Aynsley asked.
“Quite all right in a minute.” Clay turned to Osborne. “It would be bad manners to blame your cook; guess the fault was mine. Got breakfast early, and had no time for lunch.”