“Go and get 'done,' as you call it, for heaven's sake, and let me alone!” was all he got in reply.
But Clarges did not get done. He had an idea and this was his idea: To walk to some doctor recommended by Simpson and procure an instrument suitable for the purpose, and the necessary material, and to vaccinate his cousin himself. The first part was easy enough. Simpson vaguely wondering at his light-hearted talk, left him at a doctor's surgery door, and Clarges, who could always get what he wanted from anybody in any part of the world, soon persuaded the doctor to give him a “point” and all necessary instructions.
“A small lancet is really a better thing,” said that gentleman, “but you will manage all right, I daresay. We must really take every precaution we can. Good evening.”
All this was easy; now arose the difficulty, how best to tackle Bovey.
“He's such a giant of a fellow,” thought Clarges. “But if he is only asleep as he hinted he would be, there'll not be much difficulty. What will he do when he finds it out in the morning, supposing I am successful in operating upon him to-night? What a suggestive word! I am quite the surgeon. But I'll do it—Arthur Clarges, see that you do do it, by all you hold dear and sacred in old England!”
On his return, however, to the hotel, he found that his cousin was clearly wide-awake again.
“Hang it all!” he said to himself, “why isn't he asleep?” But the Hon. Bovyne was not in the least sleepy. He rallied Arthur on his poor arm but fortunately did not ask to look at it. He ordered up a sherry cobbler apiece and brought out some of his rarest weeds. “I say, what do you think of Simpson, Bovey?” said Clarges, suddenly.
“Think? why, that there's nothing in him to think about.”
“Did you know he was married?”
“No; is he?” Bovey was always laconic.