"About half an hour."
"Let it be done."
Again Flint sank into a sort of stupor, from which he was awakened by a knock, and the entrance of a nervous, little wiry gentleman whose clothes of rusty black had the effect of having been purchased in a fit of absence of mind.
The sufferer roused himself as the physician came in.
"The doctor?"
"Yes."
"My name is Flint, and I sent for you to give me a dose of morphine."
"My name, sir, is Cricket, and I'm damned if I do any such thing."
"Why did they send for you then?"