"Oh, señorita, I am!"
"But you mustn't. It'll make you worse!"
"I'm all right. I feel all right. I'm going to get up, so get out of here!" He began tumbling his big body around under the sheets.
The griffe girl became desperate.
"But, señor, the señora has not said so; the doctor has not said so; nobody has given you permission...." She was trying to shoo him back under the cover with her hands.
"Are you going to get out or not?"
"Señor, you must not get up!"
"Oh, all right! Stick around and get an eyeful...." He began heaving himself up, tumbling back the sheet.
The griffe girl started backing out of the room. She resisted him morally to the last ditch, motioning him back into bed, but being gradually expelled as larger and larger segments of his pink pajamas came into view. The queer part was that in Strawbridge's extreme weakness the griffe girl had assisted one of the guards in the drummer's necessities; now she was whisked out of the room by the sight of his pajamas. Such is the power of matter over mind.
Strawbridge made a sorry mess of getting his clothes on, until Pambo, the guard who had served him during his illness, came in—sent, no doubt, by the griffe girl—and helped. Pambo was a pleasant little fellow, and instead of discouraging the invalid's effort he congratulated him on his improvement, and suggested a walk down into the plaza.