Larkins’s face grew alarmed, and his jaw dropped. “What! Smallpox? Oh, I say, Batchelor, I hope not. It looks more like as if you’d been fighting.”
“That’s the smallpox coming on,” I said, mournfully; “I’m sure!”
“Perhaps I’d better go,” said Larkins, making for the door. “I’ll tell them at your office,” and with that he bolted suddenly.
It rather pleased me to imagine the sensation which his news would occasion not only down stairs among Mrs Nash’s lodgers, but also at the office. I could hear the sound of eager voices below, followed by what I fancied was the hurried stampede of the company from the house. Then presently Mrs Nash’s foot sounded on the stairs, and she opened the door.
“Have you had it, Mrs Nash?” I cried, as she appeared.
She made no answer, but walked up straight to my bed. “What’s all this nonsense about?” she demanded.
“I’m afraid it’s smallpox. I’m so sorry on your account,” I said, quite meekly. “I sort of felt it coming on some days,” I added, quite convinced in my own mind it had been so.
To my astonishment, the good lady expressed neither surprise nor sympathy. “Fiddlesticks!” said she. “Come, get up!”
“Get up?” I cried, in astonishment. “I can’t possibly, Mrs Nash. I tried just now, and couldn’t stand!”
“Stuff and nonsense! You ought to be ashamed of yourself going and fighting with a parcel of young roughs over night, and then shamming illness in the morning because you daren’t show your black eyes to the governors! Come, you don’t get round me with any of your nonsense! Up you get, or I’ll start and sweep out the room before you’re dressed!”