"
"There's a taxi, doctor," said I, "if we can get him into it. I have
a flat in Jermyn Street, and a trustworthy manservant. I suggest
that he'll do there for the night."
"Right," said Dr. Tredgold again; "and the sooner the better.
I'll come with you, when I've bound up this wound on his hand.
It's a nasty one. . . . It looks to me--Yes, and it is, too!"
"What is it?" I asked.
"A dog-bite."
"So _that_ was what he killed!" thought I, and aloud I said, "Thank
God!"
"Eh?" said the doctor. "A dog-bite's a queer thing to thank God
for."
"It might have been worse," I answered.
"H'm: well it's bad enough," Dr. Tredgold replied, busy with his
bandaging.
NIGHT THE TWENTY-FIFTH.
THE PAYING OF THE SCORE.
Next evening, my leave being up, I returned to Aldershot.
Dr. Tredgold had called around early, and after overhauling his
patient and dressing the hand, had assured me there was no cause for
anxiety. The fever had gone down, and this allowed us to tackle the
main mischief, which was malnutrition. In short, Jack was starving.
"Your man makes an excellent nurse," said the doctor.
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