Little by little, the portable property in the rooms of the Morrises disappeared into the pawnshop. Misfortune, as usual, did not come singly. The small boy was ill, and Morris himself seemed to be unable to resist the temptation of the Red Lion. The unhappy woman took her boy to the parish doctor, who was very busy, but he gave what attention he could to the case. He said all the boy needed was nourishing food and country air. Mrs. Morris sighed, and decided to take the little boy oftener to the park, but the way was long, and he grew weaker day by day.
At last, she succeeded in interesting her husband in the little fellow’s condition. He consented to take the boy to the doctor with her.
“The doctor doesn’t seem to mind what I say,” she complained. “Perhaps he will pay attention to a man.”
Morris was not naturally a morose person, but continued disappointment was rapidly making him so. He said nothing, but took the boy in his arms, and, followed by his wife, went to the doctor.
“This boy was here before,” said the physician, which tended to show that he had paid more attention to the case than Mrs. Morris thought. “He is very much worse. You will have to take him to the country or he will die.”
“How can I send him to the country?” asked Morris, sullenly. “I’ve been out of work for months.”
“Have you friends in the country?”
“No.”
“Hasn’t your wife any friends in the country who would take her and the lad for a month or so?”
“No.”