He was of medium height, his face was rather
long and pale, his eyes looked tired.
'Hello, Jack! Well, Jack!' exclaimed Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely
said, 'Jack.'
'What's doing?' asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry.
'Same. We've got to be out by Wednesday.--Got a cold?'
'I have--got it bad, too.'
'Why don't you stop in?'
'_Me_ stop in? When I can't stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a
chance.' The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent.
'It's a knock-out, isn't it,' said Joe, boisterously, 'if a doctor goes
round croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn't it?'
The young doctor looked at him slowly.
'Anything the matter with _you_, then?' he asked sarcastically.
'Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why?'
'I thought you were very concerned about the patients, wondered if you
might be one yourself.'
'Damn it, no, I've never been patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I
never shall be,' returned Joe.
At this point Mabel rose from the table, and they all seemed to become
aware of her existence. She began putting the dishes together. The young
doctor looked at her, but did not address her. He had not greeted her.
She went out of the room with the tray, her face impassive and unchanged.
'When are you off then, all of you?' asked the doctor.
'I'm catching the eleven-forty,' replied Malcolm.
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