"His collar hurts him! Then why doesn't he take it off?"
"That's just it. He won't. He says he always wears it and it never hurt him before, and he'll be—well, he says he won't take it off for anybody."
I turned away and bit my lip.
Poor old sick, obstinate Jimmie! In my mind's eye I could just see him lying there with all his hot clothes on and swearing he would not take them off and be made comfortable.
But I could do nothing. He would see none of us. I sent tea and lemonade and ice and hot-water bags and every conceivable remedy to his rooms, but with no effect. Nor would he hear of our calling a doctor.
About four o'clock Mrs. Jimmie left him for a few moments, and this was my chance.
I slipped into the room. He was lying on the couch with his feet in patent leather shoes,—even his coat and waistcoat on, and a high, tight collar which rasped his ears.
He grinned sheepishly when he saw me.
"You told me to keep out, I know, but I never do as I'm told, so I came anyhow."
"I know that," growled Jimmie.