A vague smile dawned on Gaunt's face. He made an effort or two, and finally achieved the repetition of the doctor's term. "In-con-sid-erate," he murmured. "That's—that's a word, isn't it?"
"Yes, a word. What did you expect?" asked the doctor gently.
"I thought I had done with words," sighed the patient, lifting his eyes to the grey autumnal sky.
"So did we all—all except your wife," was the reply. "She was certain that you would revive, if she went on calling you."
Gaunt filled his lungs with the sharp air. The brandy they had given him began to course in his veins. "Lift me up," he said.
Dr. Dymock raised him against his knee, and slowly, as though it were something of a feat, he lifted his hand and touched his forehead. Around him was the grassy sloping of the Dale. Workmen's tools and sheds were close by. At a distance were the two cars, in one of which Joey Ferris was bending over some one. Memory returned in a rolling flood.
"Rosenberg. Is he alive?"
"Oh, yes. Broken collar-bone, and I think a rib as well, but I am not sure yet. A good many cuts and bruises, but he'll do."
"You ought to—set his bones?"
"Yes, the delay is bad, but it was inevitable. With you it was a matter of life and death. However, you are all right now. Drink some more of this stuff, and then you had better get home as fast as you can."