"Are you feeling better?" asked the master, as he turned from Paul to the patient.
"Oh, yes, much better. It's done me good to have Percival here."
"I'm glad to hear it."
Mr. Weevil's hand went gently, lovingly over the boy's brow, and he watched him anxiously through his half-closed eyes. Paul recalled the master's grief when he first saw the boy after the accident, and other little traits of kindness—traits which had shown him that Mr. Weevil was not altogether the stern, harsh man he had one time thought him. None the less, he was sorry that he had entered the room at that moment. Hibbert had awakened his curiosity. What was it that was weighing on his mind? What had he to tell him about the man Zuker? He wished Mr. Weevil had kept from the room a bit longer.
Paul waited, hoping that he would go out. But the master did not move from the position he had taken up at the bedside, and his hand continued to move caressingly over the boy's forehead. After a minute or two's silence he turned to Paul.
"You've had your fair spell of watching, Percival. I'll take your place till Mrs. Trounce returns. Hibbert looks very flushed and feverish. I'm afraid he's been speaking too much."
What could Paul say? He had no alternative but to obey. Hibbert's eyes followed him as he went out.
"What was it he had to tell me, I wonder?" Paul asked himself, as he passed along the corridor.
It was a long time before he slept that night. His mind kept travelling back over the many events of a singularly eventful day. And when he at last dozed off to sleep, he could hear the voice of Hibbert sounding a long way off.
"Oh, why didn't you let me die? Why didn't you let me go down in the river? Why did you save me? Don't leave me, Percival—don't leave me. I'll be quieter if you stay with me a little longer."