"Your head's as hot as fire," I said. "And those shoes are drawing like a mustard plaster."
"I don't care. I won't take 'em off," said Jimmie, savagely, raising himself on his elbow.
I turned on him.
"You always were a fool, Jimmie," I said. "You don't have to take them off if you don't want to." (He sank back with a groan of pain.) "But I'm going to do it, and if you kick while your foot is in my lap you'll hurt me."
Before he could wink I had pulled off those abominable things, and slipped his narrow silk-stockinged feet into cool slippers. He couldn't restrain a sigh of comfort. I went in the closet to put his shoes on their trees, and brought out a white linen coat.
"Sit up and put this on," I commanded.
"I will not!" he answered, flatly.
I looked around and there stood Mrs. Jimmie. If she had stayed away another ten minutes, I would have got him comfortable. But in spite of our combined efforts he insisted upon lying there as he was.
I went out and telephoned for the doctor, and when he came it pleased Jimmie no end that he didn't say a word about taking off those hot clothes.
"You see," he said to his wife, "that doctor knows his business. He doesn't devil me the way you women do."