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“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.”

“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.”

“Fearfully upset, he was, pore dear,” testified Mrs. Scutts. “He can’t bear losing a day. I s’pose–I s’pose the railway company will ‘ave to do something if it’s serious, won’t they, sir?”

“Nothing to do with me,” said the doctor. “I’ll put him on the club for a few days; I expect he will be all right soon. He’s got a healthy colour–a very healthy colour.”

Mr. Scutts waited until he had left the house and then made a few remarks on the colour question that for impurity of English and strength of diction have probably never been surpassed.

A second visitor that day came after dinner–a tall man in a frock-coat, bearing in his hand a silk hat, which, after a careful survey of the room, he hung on a knob of the bedpost.

“Mr. Scutts?” he inquired, bowing.

“That’s me,” said Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice.

“I’ve called from the railway company,” said the stranger. “We have seen now all those who left their names and addresses on Monday afternoon, and I am glad to say that nobody was really hurt. Nobody.”

Mr. Scutts, in a faint voice, said he was glad to hear it.

“Been a wonder if they had,” said the other, cheerfully. “Why, even the paint wasn’t knocked off the engine. The most serious damage appears to be two top-hats crushed and an umbrella broken.”

He leaned over the bed-rail and laughed joyously. Mr. Scutts, through half-closed eyes, gazed at him in silent reproach.