“I know,” said Mr. Flynn, nodding sagely; “but if it was hurt bad your face would be as white as that sheet-whiter.”
“The doctor said as he was to be kep' quiet,” remarked Mrs. Scutts, sharply.
“Right-o,” said Mr. Flynn. “Ta-ta, old pal. Keep your pecker up, and if you want your back rubbed with turps, or anything of that sort, just knock on the wall.”
He went, before Mr. Scutts could think of a reply suitable for an invalid and, at the same time, bristling with virility. A sinful and foolish desire to leap out of bed and help Mr. Flynn downstairs made him more rubicund than ever.
He sent for the club doctor next morning, and, pending his arrival, partook of a basin of arrowroot and drank a little beef-tea. A bottle of castor-oil and an empty pill-box on the table by the bedside added a little local colour to the scene.
“Any pain?” inquired the doctor, after an examination in which bony and very cold fingers had played a prominent part.
“Not much pain,” said Mr. Scutts. “Don't seem to have no strength in my back.”
“Ah!” said the doctor.
“I tried to get up this morning to go to my work,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I can't stand! couldn't get out of bed.”
“Fearfully upset, he was, pore dear,” testified Mrs. Scutts. “He can't bear losing a day. I s'pose—I s'pose the railway company will 'ave to do something if it's serious, won't they, sir?”