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