“Here, Jake,” he exclaimed, as he burst in at the door, “here’s the latest Spectacle. Have a try at it.”
Finch was lying on his couch, laid low by an intense headache. The pain was so severe that he could scarcely respond to his hero’s greeting. “Thanks,” he said weakly. He tried to get up, but Tony, quick as a flash, pushed him gently back.
“There, keep quiet! I didn’t know you had another headache. I’m awfully sorry, old chap. Rotten things, those headaches of yours.”
Finch smiled, and writhed with pain. “It’ll be all right, I guess.”
Tony sat down on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you go up to the Infirmary?... Can I get you anything?”
“No ... thank you,” Jake answered. “I’ll sleep it off; it’s the only way. Don’t bother. If you don’t mind, I’ll make out better alone.”
“Mind? No. Only I’m blamed sorry.”
“Leave the Spectacle, will you?”
“All right, I’ll stick it here on your desk. Read it in the morning. Don’t forget to call me if you want anything. Does Bill know you’re sick?”
“Yes—he’s been in.”