‘I will go back with you, if you please,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘I should like to see poor Oglethorpe. He has behaved well.’
‘At your service, sir,’ said Sam, jumping to his feet. ‘I dare to say a gentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow like Tom—no, nor a plain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him. And excuse me, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you won’t forget about the letter neither?’
‘Surely not,’ said Mr. Archer.
Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the inn. The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute drops; there was but one small window; the beds were occupied by servants, the air of the garret was both close and chilly. Mr. Archer’s heart sank at the threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a sick-room, and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off. The guard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with a thick lip and a broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, and when Mr. Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with fever.
‘I fear you suffer much,’ he said, with a catch in his voice, as he sat down on the bedside.
‘I suppose I do, sir,’ returned Oglethorpe; ‘it is main sore.’
‘I am used to wounds and wounded men,’ returned the visitor. ‘I have been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; and, if you will suffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor comes.’
‘It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,’ said Oglethorpe. ‘The trouble is they won’t none of them let me drink.’
‘If you will not tell the doctor,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I will give you some water. They say it is bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we all drank water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we were the worse for it.’
‘Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?’ called Oglethorpe.