“Old man, you’re overdoing it!”
George looked up from his work, surprised at the interruption. Alas! his pale face and sunken eyes testified only too forcibly to his friend’s protest. I, who knew him best, and saw him at all times, had watched with grief the steady and persistent undermining of his health, at no times robust, and dreaded to think what might be the result of this protracted strain on his constitution.
“I tell you, you’re overdoing it, old man, and you must pull up!”
“Suppose we talk of that afterwards,” said George.
“Not at all,” retorted the dogged Jim; “just shut up your books, Reader, and listen to me.”
“I’ll listen to you, Jim, but don’t make me shut up my books. What have you got to say?”
“Just this; you’re doing too much. I can see it. Everybody can see it. Do you think I can’t see your eyes and your cheeks? Do you think I can’t hear you blowing like—”
“Really—” began George.
“Listen to me!” went on Jim—“blowing like an old broken-winded horse? Yes, you may laugh, but I mean it. Do you think I don’t know you’ve never been out of doors ten minutes that you could help for six months? and that you have even given up the organ?”
“That’s true,” groaned George, leaning back in his chair.