"Be 'ere in two ticks," was the response. "Two of 'em was out, this was the third."
He stood regarding with an air of relief the strange outline of Mrs. Bindle's head enveloped in the towel. Someone had at last done something.
"She ain't a-goin' to die, Martha, is she?" he enquired of Mrs. Hearty, his brow lined with anxiety.
"Not 'er," breathed Mrs. Hearty reassuringly. "It's bronchitis. You just light a fire, Joe."
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Bindle had tip-toed to the door and was taking the stairs three at a time. Action was the one thing he desired. He determined that, the fire once laid, he would set to work to clean out the saucepan he had burned. Somehow that saucepan seemed to bite deep into his conscience.
The doctor came, saw, and confirmed Mrs. Hearty's diagnosis. Having prescribed a steam-kettle, inhalations of eucalyptus, slop food, warmth and air, he left, promising to look in again on the morrow.
At the bottom of the stairs, he was waylaid by Bindle.
"It ain't——" he began eagerly, then paused.
The doctor, a young, fair man, looked down from his six feet one, at Bindle's anxious enquiring face.
"Nothing to be alarmed about," he said cheerfully. "I'll run in again to-morrow, and we'll soon have her about again."