"Ah," he said, "that I cannot at present say."
"And what are you going to do?"
"I shall sit up to-night in the gallery and see for myself."
"Alone?" I exclaimed, with some misgiving. For big, sturdy fellow as he was, I scarcely liked to think of him—of any one—alone with that awful thing.
"I don't suppose you or Dormy would care to keep me company," he replied, "and on the whole I would rather not have you."
"I wouldn't do it," said the child honestly, "not for—for nothing."
"I shall keep Tim with me," said Philip, "I would rather have him than any one."
Tim is Phil's bull-dog, and certainly, I agreed, much better than nobody.
So it was settled.
Dormy and I went to bed unusually early that night, for as the day wore on we both felt exceedingly tired. I pleaded a headache, which was not altogether a fiction, though I repented having complained at all when I found that poor mamma immediately began worrying herself with fears that "after all" I, too, was to fall a victim to the influenza.