“How do you mean?” said Mike.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is it all rot, or did you—you know what I mean—sham a crocked wrist?”
“Yes,” said Mike, “I did.”
Bob stared gloomily at his toes.
“I mean,” he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch to some train of thought, “I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. I suppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you—Dash it all,” he broke off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly showed him how inglorious it was, “what did you want to do it for? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about playing Providence over me? Dash it all, it’s like giving a fellow money without consulting him.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever know. You wouldn’t have if only that ass Uncle John hadn’t let it out.”
“How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?”
“He got it out of me. I couldn’t choke him off. He came down when you were away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm, and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter with it. So it came out; that’s how it was.”