"Upper bureau drawer in the bedroom."
In a twinkling P. Sybarite was off and back again with materials for an antiseptic wash and a rude bandage.
"How'd you know I was Irish?" demanded the patient.
"By yoursilf's name," quoth P. Sybarite in a thick brogue as natural as grass, while he worked away busily. "'Tis black Irish, and well I know it. 'Twas me mither's maiden name—Kenny. She had a brother, Michael he was and be way av bein' a rich conthractor in this very town as ever was, befure he died—God rist his sowl! He left two children—a young leddy who mis-spells her name M-a-e A-l-y-s—keep still!—and Peter, yersilf, me cousin, if it's not mistaken I am."
"The Lord save us!" said the boy. "You're never Percy Sybarite!"
P. Sybarite winced. "Not so loud!" he pleaded in a stage whisper. "Some one might hear you."
"What the devil's the matter with you?"
"I am that man you named—but, prithee, Percy me no Percevals, an' you'd be my friend. For fifteen years I've kept my hideous secret well. If it becomes public now ..."
Peter Kenny laughed in spite of his pain.
"I'll keep your secret, too," he volunteered, "since you feel that way about it.... But, I say: what have you been doing with yourself since—since—" He stammered.