“I can easily believe it, doctor,” said Paul. “I will speak to you on the subject later. Do you think he is going to have a fever?”
“Yes, a low fever, as I said—the revenge of outraged nature for a violation of her rules.”
“Am I going to die?” asked Jerry, his parchment skin assuming a greenish hue. “I—I want to live; I am not ready to die.”
“That depends on whether you follow my rules.”
“I will if—if you don’t make me spend too much money; I am poor—miserably poor.”
“I will see that your rules are followed, doctor,” said Paul, finding it hard to hide the disgust he felt at this characteristic manifestation of the old man’s miserly disposition.
“I see you are a sensible boy,” said the doctor, approvingly. “Perhaps I had better speak to you privately.”
“Very well, doctor. As we have no other room, will you step into the entry?”
The doctor followed Paul out.
“Before you give your instructions,” said the telegraph boy, “I want to say that Jerry—he is not my grandfather—is a miser, and has deliberately deprived himself of the necessaries of life.”