“And I’m not sure that you haven’t got eczema,”—pursued the Goblin—“Your snobbish hankering after a Peerage will probably break out in a rash all over you!”
“It won’t!” said McNason—“It shan’t! I’ll—I’ll do whatever you tell me——!”
“Oh, will you really though!” And the Goblin sniffed the air with its terribly plastic nose very dubiously—“Do you mean it? Or is it all funk? And only because you want to get away from Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up? I don’t believe in death-bed repentances!”
“It’s not—it’s not a death-bed repentance!” wailed McNason—“I don’t want this to be my death-bed! I want to die in my own home!”
“Ah! So does Willie Dove!” said the Goblin. “Perhaps you can understand now why his wife doesn’t want to send him to a Hospital!”
McNason shuddered. Time was flying fast, he thought—that cruel-looking Nurse Drat-Em-All would be coming back immediately!—and with an imploring cry he held out his arms to the Goblin.
“Ah, be good to me!” he moaned—“Take me home! I’ll promise anything—anything!”
“It’s easy to promise,”—said the Goblin, “Anyone can do that! But will you keep your promises? For instance, will you think of some other few things besides YOURSELF?”
McNason lifted his trembling hands in the fashion of one invoking the gods.
“I will!—I will!”