"I couldn't eat a mouthful," said Pickering, shutting his mouth and turning on the pillow.
"Indeed you will," declared Polly, hurrying on. "The doctor said as soon as you could talk, you must have something to eat; and I shall tell Mrs. Higby to bring it up." So she disappeared.
"Goodness me! have I had the doctor?" asked Pickering, turning back to look after her.
"Yes," said Ben. Then he tried to turn the conversation. But Pickering broke in. "Did Polly break her arm at—at the first?" he asked, holding his breath for the answer.
"Yes," said Ben, "don't talk about it," with a gasp—"Polly says that she is so glad it isn't her right arm," he added, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "And the doctor promises it will be all right soon. It's lucky there is a good one here."
Pickering groaned. "It's a pity I wasn't in the old fellow's place, Ben," he said, "for I've got to tell Polly how I wanted to leave him, and I'd rather die than see her face."
"See here," cried Ben, "if you say one word to Polly about it, I'll pitch you out of the window, sick as you are."
"Pitch ahead, then," said Pickering, "for I shall tell Polly."
"Not to-day, any way. Now promise," said Ben resolutely.
"Well—but I shall tell her sometime," said Pickering. "I'd rather she knew it—but I wish we could have saved him."