“And,” continued Earle, “unless you have good care—the very best care—it is doubtful whether you ever have the use of your leg again.”
“And what should that matter to you?” was the gruff query, accompanied by a suspicious glance.
“It matters this to me: One whom I profess to serve has bidden me to care for the sick and needy,” Earle said, gently.
“Humph! that’s all cant. You’ll watch me as a cat does a mouse, and just as soon as I begin to spruce up a little, you’ll hand me over to her majesty’s minions, and I shall have a nice little ornament attached to my leg, eh?”
He tried to put a bold front on, but it was evident that he experienced considerable anxiety regarding his future.
“There will be time enough to talk of that matter by and by,” Earle answered; indeed, he had not given a thought to the subject, and had no idea what course he should pursue.
“Now I have to give you this quieting powder,” he added, taking up one from the table, “and the doctor wishes you to get all the rest and sleep you can before the inflammation increases.”
He mixed the powder in some kind of tempting jelly, the man watching him curiously all the time.
“Who is going to take care of me?” he asked, after he had swallowed it and taken a cooling draught.
“I shall take care of you for the present.”