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.
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