Carpole, in her thin, plaintive voice. 'He can, quite well. And
you know how clumsy you are. Supposing you were to fall!'

Horace, nevertheless, in pursuance of his programme of being uncle
to Sidney, was determined to carry Sidney. And carry Sidney he
did, despite warnings and kickings. At least he carried him as far
as the turn in the steep stairs, at which point he fell, just as
his stepmother had feared, and Sidney with him. The half-brothers
arrived on the ground floor in company, but Horace, with his
eleven stone two, was on top, and the poor suffering little
convalescent lay moveless and insensible.

It took the doctor forty minutes to bring him to, and all the time
the odour of grilled herrings, which formed part of the uneaten
tea, made itself felt through the house like a Satanic comment on
the spectacle of human life. The scene was dreadful at first. The
agony then passed. There were no bruises on the boy, not a mark,
and in a couple of hours he seemed to be perfectly himself. Horace
breathed again, and thanked Heaven it was no worse. His gratitude
to Heaven was, however, slightly premature, for in the black
middle of the night poor Sidney was seized with excruciating pains
in the head, and the doctor lost four hours' sleep. These pains
returned at intervals of a few days, and naturally the child's
convalescence was retarded. Then Horace said that Airs Carpole
should take Sidney to Buxton for a fortnight, and he paid all the
expenses of the trip out of his savings. He was desolated, utterly
stricken; he said he should never forgive himself. Sidney
improved, slowly.