"Hell's hells and panther-tracks! He isn't drunk. He's sick."
Fifteen minutes later, the young Laird of Port Agnew reposed in the best room of his own hospital, and Andrew Daney was risking his life motoring at top speed up the cliff road to The Dreamerie with bad news for old Hector. Mrs. McKaye and the girls had retired but The Laird was reading in the living-room when Daney entered unannounced.
Old Hector looked up at his general manager from under his white, shaggy brow.
"Ye, Andrew," he saluted the latter gently, "I see by your face it's not welcome news you bring. Out with it, man."
So Andrew came "out with it," omitting no detail, and at the conclusion of his recital, the old man wagged his head to emphasize his comprehension.
"My son is not a dull man by any means," he said presently. "He knows what he knows—a man sure of himself always—and oh, Andrew man, because of the brain of him and the sweet soul of him, it breaks my heart to give pain to him. And what does the doctor say?"
"From a cursory examination he suspects typhoid fever."
"Ah, that's bad, bad, Andrew."
"The boy has the strength of a Hercules, sir. He'll beat through, never fear."
"Well, he'll not die to-night, at any rate," old Hector answered, "and I can do no good puttering round the hospital to-night. Neither would I alarm his mother and the girls. Send for the best medical brains in the country, Andrew, and don't quibble at the cost. Pay them what they ask. 'Twill be cheap enough if they save him. Good-night, Andrew, and thank you kindly." He stood up and laid his hand affectionately upon the shoulder of his faithful servant and walked with him thus to the door. "My good Andrew," he murmured, and propelled the general manager gently outside, "there's no need to worry over the dismissal. When the lad's well, he'll rescind his order, so, in the meantime, do not leave us."