He spoke in a croaking, hoarse voice, which I certainly did not recognise as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe's.
'Doug, he's got me by the throat, and I'm fighting him; but he'll win, he'll win. The doctor'll tell you he'll win.'
I was at a loss what to say or do. The reality of the sham, if it was a sham, affected me in a way for which I was unprepared. The doctor, perceiving something of my dilemma, whispered in my ear:
'He's in a bad way. Are you a friend of his?'
The sick man's ears were keener than the speaker had supposed. He answered for me.
'A friend? Oh, yes, he's a friend of mine, Doug's a friend. Doctor, take yourself away. I want to speak to my friend.'
Whether he was influenced by the bluntness of the dismissal, I could not say; but the doctor prepared to go.
'I will send you some medicine which will ease those pains of which you speak.'
'Curse your medicine!'
'You mustn't talk too much. Rest and composure are what you principally need.'