“Come in!”
Sorell came in with a scared face.
“My dear boy—what’s the matter?”
“Oh, there was a bit of a row last night. We were larking round the fountain, trying to push each other in, and I cut my hand on one of those rotten old pipes. Beastly luck! But Fanning’s done everything. I shall be all right directly. There’s a little bone broken.”
“A bone broken!—your hand!” ejaculated Sorell, who sat down and looked at him in dismay.
“Yes—I wish it had been my foot! But it doesn’t matter. That kind of thing gets well quickly, doesn’t it?” He eyed his visitor anxiously. “You see I never was really ill in my life.”
“Well, we can’t run any risks about it,” said Sorell decidedly. “I shall go and see Fanning. If there’s any doubt about it, I shall carry you up to London, and get one of the crack surgeons to come and look at it. What was the row about?”
Radowitz’s eyes contracted so that Sorell could make nothing out of them.
“I really can’t remember,” said the lad’s weary voice. “There’s been a lot of rowing lately.”
“Who made the row?”