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