There, as was natural, I found myself an object of a good deal of interest and remark. Doubleday, who once during my illness had sent me a short note of sympathy by Smith, was the first to welcome me back to my old quarters.
“Here we are again, young ’un, alive and kicking,” cried he, clapping me on the back as I entered. “How his whiskers have grown, haven’t they, Wallop? Well, how’s your game leg?”
“It was my arm, not my leg,” I said.
“No! was it? I heard it was your off-leg and your spine and your skull that were smashed. That’s what made me so surprised to see you. Never mind, I’m glad to see you, young ’un, for there’s a ticklish bit of figure work to do. None of the others would look at it, so I’ve saved it up for you, my boy.”
“And I’m ready for it,” said I.
Crow and Wallop greeted me rather more shyly. I fancy they had had rather a fright when they heard how very ill I had been.
They shook hands rather sheepishly, and Wallop said something about the weather which had no actual bearing, on my recovery. I had come to the conclusion during my illness that Crow and Wallop had not been altogether profitable companions, and I was therefore glad they were not more demonstrative now.
But I had yet to meet Hawkesbury, and wished the operation well over; for however much I may once have believed in him, I now disliked him, and determined to have as little to do with him as possible.
“Ah, Batchelor,” cried he, coming up with outstretched hand, and beaming as if the incident in my sick-room weeks ago had never happened. “So glad to see you back. We have missed you greatly. How do you feel? You’re looking better than when I saw you last.”
I just took his hand and said, “Thank you,” as shortly as I could.