“Here, Jake, before you go,” said Mr. Flint, producing his purse.
“Oh, thanks. Can’t accept any thing, sir,” responded Jake, and vanished.
“Now, gentlemen,” resumed the doctor, “just lend a hand, and help undress him.”
Following the doctor’s directions, they got the patient out of his clothes. He seemed to be a mere limp, inert mass of flesh, and displayed no symptoms of realizing what was going on. His extremities were ice-cold. His forehead was hot. His breath was labored.
“A very sick man, I’m afraid, isn’t he, doctor?” asked Mr. Flint.
“I’m afraid so.”
The doctor covered him with the bed-clothes.
“What do you think is the matter with him?” Mr. Flint pursued.
“Oh, it hasn’t developed sufficiently yet to be classified. His mind must have been undergoing a strain for some time, I guess; and now he’s broken down beneath it.”
“He’s quite unconscious, apparently.”