“I am too familiar with the form to be greatly impressed.”
“Will you try a bottle?”
“I had very much rather not.”
Mr. Dyson’s mouth shut like a trap. “Comes to this,” he said. “You won’t try to help me out.”
The poor invalid waved his head from side to side.
“Oh, very well,” he conceded. “I’ll take it if it gives you any satisfaction.”
“That’s the style,” cried the manager. “I’ll get you a bottle right away. Mark my words, you’ll be fit for anything by night.” And, slapping a hat on his head, he clattered from the room.
He was back five minutes later with a neat chemist’s parcel in his hand. “Bought one for myself, too,” he said. “Felt a bit snivelly this morning. Now, come on and have a dose at once.”
“I have just had a little beef-tea,” replied Eliphalet, “but I promise to take it in half-an-hour. In the meantime, I believe, with your assistance, I could snatch a few moments’ sleep.”
“Don’t see how I can help in that direction.”