“You go and fetch 'im,” said Mr. Scutts, raising his voice. “D'ye hear!” “But—” began his wife. “If I get up to you, my gal,” said the forgetful Mr. Scutts, “you'll know it.” “Why, I thought—” said his wife, in surprise. Mr. Scutts raised himself on the sofa and shook his fist at her. Then, as a tribute to appearances, he sank back and groaned again. Mrs. Scutts, looking somewhat relieved, took her bonnet from a nail and departed. The examination was long and tedious, but Mr. Scutts, beyond remarking that he felt chilly, made no complaint. He endeavoured, but in vain, to perform the tests suggested, and even did his best to stand, supported by his medical attendant. Self-preservation is the law of Nature, and when Mr. Scutts's legs and back gave way he saw to it that the doctor was underneath. “We'll have to get you up to bed,” said the latter, rising slowly and dusting himself. Mr. Scutts, who was lying full length on the floor, acquiesced, and sent his wife for some neighbours. One of them was a professional furniture-remover, and, half-way up the narrow stairs, the unfortunate had to remind him that he was dealing with a British working man, and not a piano. Four pairs of hands deposited Mr. Scutts with mathematical precision in the centre of the bed and then proceeded to tuck him in, while Mrs. Scutts drew the sheet in a straight line under his chin. “Don't _look_ much the matter with 'im,” said one of the assistants. “You can't tell with a face like that,” said the furniture-remover. “It's wot you might call a 'appy face. Why, he was 'arf smiling as we, carried 'im up the stairs.” “You're a liar,” said Mr. Scutts, opening his eyes. “All right, mate,” said the furniture-remover; “all right. 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. Flynn, nodding sagely; “but if it was hurt bad your face would be as white as that sheet—whiter.”