There's no
call to get annoyed about it. Good old English pluck, I call it. Where
d'you feel the pain?"
"All over," said Mr. Scutts, briefly.
His neighbours regarded him with sympathetic eyes, and then, led by the
furniture-remover, filed out of the room on tip-toe. The doctor, with a
few parting instructions, also took his departure.
"If you're not better by the morning," he said, pausing at the door,
"you must send for your club doctor."
Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice, thanked him, and lay with a twisted smile
on his face listening to his wife's vivid narrative to the little crowd
which had collected at the front door. She came back, followed by the
next-door neighbour, Mr. James Flynn, whose offers of assistance ranged
from carrying Mr. Scutts out pick-a-back when he wanted to take the air,
to filling his pipe for him and fetching his beer.
"But I dare say you'll be up and about in a couple o' days," he
concluded. "You wouldn't look so well if you'd got anything serious the
matter; rosy, fat cheeks and----"
"That'll do," said the indignant invalid. "It's my back that's hurt,
not my face."
"I know," said Mr.
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