"I am a bit stiff," said Frank.
"Are you hungry?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, you're doing very well, if that's any satisfaction to you," observed the doctor, frowning on him doubtfully.
Frank said nothing.
The doctor sat down on a chair by the bed that Frank suddenly noticed for the first time.
"Well," said the doctor, "I suppose you want to know the facts. Here they are. My name is Whitty; I'm a doctor; you're in my house. This is Wednesday afternoon; your friends brought you here yesterday morning. I've given them some work in the garden. You were ill yesterday, but you're all right now."
"What was the matter?"
"We won't bother about names," said the doctor with a kind sharpness. "You had a blister; it broke and became a sore; then you wore one of those nasty cheap socks and it poisoned it. That's all."
"That's in those bottles?" asked Frank languidly. (He felt amazingly weak and stupid.)