"What's the matter with him? Not d. t. again, eh?"
"Some sort of fever, I'm afraid. Catching, too, I hear."
"Poor Denzil! Let us hope he'll not want for good nursing."
"How can he have good nursing," said another, "when, as I happen to know, he hasn't a single relation within a hundred miles of London? He rents a back bedroom on a third floor, and gets his meals out. That's the sort of home Denzil has."
"Poor devil! They ought to have taken him to the hospital. He'd have been properly cared for there."
"They say he's too ill to be moved," remarked the landlord, as he placidly puffed at his pipe. Had the health of his favorite terrier been in question, some show of feeling might naturally have been expected from him.
Then Mr. Fildew spoke. "Gentlemen," he said, "my opinion is that a deputation of the present company ought without delay to inquire into the circumstances attendant on Mr. Denzil's illness, and make such arrangements as may be necessary for having him properly cared for."
There was a dead silence in the room. Everybody puffed away with increased energy at their pipes.
Mr. Pyecroft, the small-ware dealer, a thin man with a squeaky voice, was the first to speak. "Did you say the fever was a catching one, Mr. Landlord?"
"So my potman was given to understand. A bad kind of fever--very."