When they called Jim Grimm in again––he knew what they were about, and it seemed a long, long time before the call came––little Jimmie was lying on the couch, sick and pale, with his knee tightly bandaged, but with his eyes glowing.
“Mama! Father!” the boy whispered, exultantly. “They says I’m cured.”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “he’ll be all right, now. His trouble was not rheumatism. It was caused by a fragment of the bone, broken off at the knee-joint. At least, that’s as plain as I can make it to you. He was bitten by a dog, was he not? So he says. And he remembers that he felt a stab of pain in his knee at the time. That or the fall probably accounts for it. At any rate, I have removed that fragment. He’ll be all right, after a bit. I’ve told the schoolmaster how to take care of him, and I’ll leave some medicine, and––well––he’ll soon be all right.” 48
When the doctor was about to step from the punt to the steamer’s ladder, half an hour later, Jim Grimm held up a letter to him.
“’Tis for you, sir,” he said.
“What’s this?” the doctor demanded.
“’Tis for you to keep, sir,” Jim answered, with dignity. “’Tis the money for the work you done.”
“Money!” cried the doctor. “Why, really,” he stammered, “I––you see, this is my vacation––and I–––”
“I ’low, sir,” said Jim, quietly, “that you’ll ’blige me.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed the doctor, being wise, “that I will!”