“Sit down, sir,” cried the unconscious man. It was only the last outbreak of Philip's delirium, but Pete trembled and shrank back.
Then Philip groaned and his blue lips quivered. He opened his eyes. They wandered about the room for a moment, and afterwards fixed themselves on Pete in a long and haggard gaze. Pete's own eyes were too full of tears to be full of sight, but he could see that the change had come. He panted with expectation, and looked down at Philip with doglike delight.
There was a moment's silence, and then, in a voice as faint as a breath, Philip murmured. “What's——where's——is it Pete?”
At that Pete uttered a shout of joy. “He's himself! He's himself! Thank God!”
“Eh?” said Philip helplessly.
“Don't you be bothering yourself now,” cried Pete. “Lie quiet, boy; you're in your own room, and as nice as nice.”
“But,” said Philip, “will you not kindly——”
“Not another word, Phil. It's nothing. You're all serene, and about as right as ninepence.”
“Your Honour has been delirious,” said Jem-y-Lord.
“Chut!” said Pete behind his hand, and then, with another joyful shout, “Is it a beefsteak you'll be having, Phil, or a dish of tay and a herring?”