“Look here,” he tried to explain. “I’m not drunk, not really. I’ve got pneumonia.”
“But you can’t have pneumonia here!” Trevor cried in horror.
“Oh, can’t I!” said Ivor weakly. And he flopped as he was on to the sofa, and closed his eyes.
Trevor was very busy the next few minutes. Ivor seemed unconscious, his breathing came in quick, rasping gasps, and Trevor could feel the fever of him when he touched him. In a moment he had off the wet shoes and overcoat, and had him covered up with a rug and an eiderdown from his bedroom. Ivor still clutched his hot-water bottle.
“Well, I’m damned!” said Trevor softly, beside him; and he stretched out to the telephone which was on a little table by the divan. Ivor opened his eyes to stare round him, and then put a hand feebly across them, for the light hurt them. Trevor switched out the lights, the fire was light enough. He picked up the telephone again. Ivor stared at him.
“Doctor,” Trevor briefly explained.
“Sorry, Gerald ... let you in for this,” Ivor said faintly.
“That’s all right, old man. Be quiet now. Love to have the honour of saving your life.”
“I’ve had this before,” Ivor just murmured. “At school. Not so badly, though.... But they thought I was done, ... and said prayers for me in the school-chapel.... ‘For one of us who is now at death’s door.’ ... Everyone was very touched....”
“Pooh, that’s nothing!” Trevor mocked. “People have said prayers for me when I hadn’t got pneumonia. But look here, Ivor, try to keep quiet while I get a doctor. There’s a good chap.”