“No, sir.”
“By the way, ever had any lung trouble in your family?”
“Yes, sir. My mother, I’ve been told, died of it.”
“Look here, take the afternoon off and see our doctor.”
The doctor was a little bald, rosy man. He looked up at Hugh’s nigh six feet of gaunt weariness.
“You’re not fit to be out, sir. Go home at once. I’ll see you there.”
So Hugh went to his bed, and remained in it all summer.
4.
One day in late October he lay on his bed staring drearily at the soiled ceiling, and wondering if in all London there was a lad more unhappy than he.
“A lunger,” he thought bitterly. “Rotten timber! A burden to myself and others. Soon I must take up the fight again and I’m tired, tired. I want to rest, do nothing for a year or two. Well, I won’t give in. I’ll put up a good scrap yet. I’ll——”