Mr. Bennett sat down. Miss Hubbard extended once more the hand holding the needle which had caused his outcry. He winced away from it desperately.
“Baby!” said Miss Hubbard reprovingly. “Why, I once sewed eighteen stitches in a native bearer’s head, and he didn’t make half the fuss you’re making. Now, keep quite still.”
Mr. Bennett did—for perhaps the space of two seconds. Then he leaped from his seat once more. It was a tribute to the forceful personality of the fair surgeon, if one were needed, that the squeal he uttered was a subdued one. He was just about to speak—he had framed the opening words of a strong protest—when suddenly he became aware of something in his mouth, something small and hard. He removed it and examined it as it lay on his finger. It was a minute fragment of lobster-shell. And at the same time he became conscious of a marked improvement in the state of his tongue. The swelling had gone.
“I told you so!” said Jane Hubbard placidly. “What is it?”
“It—it appears to be a piece of....”
“Lobster-shell. And we had lobster for lunch. Good-night.”
Half-way down the stairs, it suddenly occurred to Mr. Bennett that he wanted to sing. He wanted to sing very loud, and for quite some time. He restrained the impulse, and returned to bed. But relief such as his was too strong to keep bottled up. He wanted to tell someone all about it. He needed a confidant.
Webster, the valet, awakened once again by the ringing of his bell, sighed resignedly and made his way downstairs.
“Did you ring, sir?”
“Webster,” cried Mr. Bennett, “it’s all right! I’m not dying after all! I’m not dying after all, Webster!”