The doctor came, waylaid on his return from the “Black Lion.” He removed the salt-soaked bandages, washed the wounds in tepid water, examined them carefully, and applied some antiseptic dressing, of which he had a supply in his dogcart for the benefit of George Pickering.
“An’ how is Mr. Pickerin’ te-night?” inquired Mrs. Bolland, who was horrified at first by the sight of Martin’s damages, but reassured when the doctor said the boy would be all right in a day or two.
“Not so well, Mrs. Bolland,” was the answer.
“Oh, ye don’t say so. Poor chap! Is it wuss than ye feared for?”
“No; the wound is progressing favorably, but he is feverish. I don’t like that. Fever is weakening.”
No more would the doctor say, and Mrs. Bolland soon forgot the sufferings of another in her distress at Martin’s condition. She particularly lamented that he should be laid up during the Feast.
At that the patient laughed.
“Surely I can go out, doctor!” he cried.
“Go out, you imp! Of course, you can. But, remember, no larking about and causing these cuts to reopen. Better stay in the house until I see you in the morning.”