"I feel as if I was jolly well screwed, sir."
Rutford nodded portentously.
"I feel," continued Scaife, "as I did once long ago, when I was a kid and got hold of some curaçoa at one of my father's parties."
"Just so," said the doctor.
"Same buzzing in the head, same beastly feeling, same—same old—same old—giddiness." He closed his eyes, and his head fell heavily upon his chest.
"It looks like concussion," said the doctor, doubtfully. "You say he fell?" He turned to John.
"I was just outside the door," said John.
"We'll put him into the sick-room, Mr. Rutford. And in a day or two he'll be himself again."
"Are you sure that what I—er—feared—er——?"