"I didn't know how hard his head was," offered a third voice, "and we can't afford to take chances. You know that. Anybody, he's coming along all right, so what's the odds?"
"He's ruined that pillow," complained the first voice. "And I know he's bled on through the sheets into the mattress. Spoil the mattress, that will. Cake the feathers all up. Make 'em nubbly."
"Don't be so dainty, Sam," laughed the second voice. "You're so all-fired fat what's a rough mattress to you? Sleep on the floor, and you wouldn't know the difference."
Billy kept his eyes shut, although he was now completely conscious. His head ached like forty. Seemed as if the whole top had come off and dozens of little devils were inside hammering like mad. He believed he knew the owners of those three voices. Sam Larder, Felix Craft and Tip O'Gorman. He opened his eyes. Yes, he was right. There they were, the three of them. But it was daylight, and a day of sunshine too. And the last thing he remembered was a night of wind and rain.
Tip gave back his look with a smile. Sam Larder and Felix Craft did not smile. Their faces were serious.
"Glad to see you're coming round," said Tip O'Gorman. "Here, let me fix that bandage. Looks as if it might be slipping. How you feel—pretty good?"
"Pretty good—considering," replied Bill.
"That's fine, fine. Want a li'l something to eat?"
"Rather have a drink."
The cool water revived him like wine. He lay back on the pillows greatly refreshed. He thought his head ached a little less, perhaps.