“Just collapsed. When I tried to rouse him, he kicked me in the chest,” replied the magnate, with somber seriousness.
“Oh, you goose of a dad!” There was a tremulous note in Polly’s low laughter. “That’s all right, then. Can’t you see he’s dead for sleep, poor beetle man?”
“Do you think so?” said Mr. Brewster, vastly relieved. “Hadn’t I better go out for a doctor, and make sure?”
She shook her head.
“Let him rest. Hand me that pillow, please, dad.”
With soft little pushes and wedges she worked it under the scientist’s head. “What a dreadful botch of bandaging! He looks so pale! I wonder if I couldn’t get those cloths off. Lend me your knife, dad.”
Gently as she worked, the head on the pillow began to sway, and the lips to move.
“Oh, let me alone!” they muttered querulously.
The eyes opened. The Unspeakable Perk gazed up into the faces above him, but saw only one, a face whose tender concern softened it to a loveliness greater even than when he had last seen it. He tried to rise, but the hands that pressed him back were firm and quick.
“Lie still!” bade their owner.