“But it's such an infernal nuisance. You oughtn't to be sitting here, either. It may be catching.” “Nonsense! I'm not afraid.” “It's--it's mighty good of you,” he muttered, his eyes blinking. “What are friends for, Mr Dawes, if they can't be depended upon in times of sickness?” “Friends?” he gasped. “Certainly. Am I not your friend?” “I--I--well, by gosh!” he exploded. “I--I must tell this to Joe. He'll--I beg your pardon, I guess I'm a little flighty. Maybe I'm worse than I think. Delirious or something like that. Say, you don't think it's--it's serious, do you?” “Of course not. A heavy cold, that's all. The doctor will break it up immediately.” “Maybe it's the grippe, eh?” “Possibly.” “What's my temperature?” “You mustn't worry, Mr Dawes. It's all right.” He was silent for a moment, steadfastly regarding the hand that stroked his wrinkled old paw so gently. “If--if it should turn out to be pneumonia or lung fever, I wish you wouldn't let on to Joe,” said he anxiously. “It would worry him almost to death. He's not very strong, you see. Nothing like me. I'm as strong as a bull. Never been sick in my------” “I know,” she said quietly. “He isn't half so strong as you, Mr Dawes. You are so strong you will be able to throw off this cold in a jiffy, as Jones would say. It won't amount to anything.” “If I get much worse you'd better send me to a hospital. Awful nuisance having a sick man about the place. Spoils everything. Don't hesitate about sending me off, Mrs Brood. I wouldn't be a trouble to you or Jim for------” “You poor old dear! You shall stay right where you are, no matter what comes to pass, and I shall take charge of you myself.” “You?” She nodded her head briskly. “Well, by jiggers, I--I don't know what Joe'll say when I tell him this. Blast him; I'll bet my head he calls me a liar. If he does, blast him, I'll--oh, I beg your pardon! I don't seem to be able to get over the habit of------” “Here is Mr Riggs--and my husband,” she interrupted, as the door opened and the two men strode into the room. “Is Jones telephoning?” “Yes,” said Brood. “Why, what's gone wrong, old man?” “It's all my fault,” groaned Mr Riggs, sitting down heavily on the opposite side of the bed. “I let him go out without his overcoat. He's not a strong man, Jim. Least breath of air goes right through----” “See here, Riggs, you know better than that,” roared the sick man wrathfully. “I can stand more------” “There, there!” cried Mrs Brood reprovingly. “It isn't fair to quarrel with Mr Riggs. He can't very well abuse you in return, Mr Dawes, can he?” “You may be on your death-bed,” said Mr Riggs mournfully, as if that were reason enough for not abusing him. “Nonsense,” said Brood; but it was an anxious look that he shot at Yvonne. Mr Dawes's face was fiery hot. “I shall come back to see you immediately after dinner, Mr Dawes,” said she, and again stroked his hand.