Shortly after this Pembury hobbled in on his way to bed.
“You’re a pretty fellow,” said he to Oliver; “not one of our fellows cares a rush about the Dominican since you made yourself into the latest sensation.”
“Oh, don’t let us have that up again,” implored Oliver.
“All very well, but what is to become of the Dominican?”
“Oh, have a special extra number about me. Call me a coward, and a fool, and a Tadpole, any mortal thing you like, only shut up about the affair now!”
Pembury looked concerned.
“Allow me to feel your pulse,” said he to Oliver.
“Feel away,” said Oliver, glad of any diversion.
“Hum! As I feared—feverish. Oliver, my boy, you are not well. Wandering a bit in your mind, too; get to bed. Be better soon. Able to talk like an ordinary rational animal then, and not like an animated tom-cat. Good-bye!”
And so saying he departed, leaving the friends too much amused to be angry at his rudeness.