“Yes. They’ve been mighty good to me, the Kingsfords.”
“They’re nice people,” said John. “Have you seen Everett?”
“No; you’re the first one—that’s been here—that I’ve seen, you know.”
“I see. Chester Baker has been in a terrible state of funk over you, Phil. He told me one day that it was his fault that you were ill, and that if you ‘pegged out’—to use his own elegant expression—he was going to China. I don’t know why China particularly; he didn’t say. But maybe he was going to turn Boxer.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” said Phillip. Then, after a pause: “The fellows have been mighty kind, John; whole stacks of them left cards and fruit and things, Margey says—fellows I didn’t know very well, some of them.” He paused again. “And you—Margey says you’ve been awfully good to her—and me; and—” he leaned forward and arranged Betty’s card in a new position, a flush of colour in his cheeks—“thank you,” he muttered.
“Nonsense, Phil; I’ve done very little. I’m not nearly even with you yet for your kindness to me at Elaine. I enjoyed myself there more than I have anywhere for a long while. Well, I must be going or the nurse will throw me out. Hurry up and get well, Phil.” He held out his hand. Phillip laid his own in it.
“Good-by. You’ll come again?”
“Often as they’ll let me, old chap.” He moved toward the door. With his hand on the knob he heard his name spoken and turned.
“Come back a minute, will you?” Phillip was asking.