Billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patient in bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. He was slowly recovering from an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits.
"Well," said McGregor, "better, I see. Bugs gone?"
"Yes, sir; but if I had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on,
I'd be all right."
"Not a drop, Peter."
"I'll die if I don't get it."
"Then die sober."
Peter made no reply. McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful examination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll be well."
"For God's sake, give me whisky—a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."
"No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr. Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, I suppose?"
"Yes, there is no one else."