"Give me your hand, Patterson"; and before I knew what he wanted with
it, he had his fingers on my wrist.
"Look here, old fellow," he said; "you will be laid up, if you don't
take care of yourself. I thought so when you came in, and I am sure of
it now. What have you been doing?"
"Nothing wrong, Munro," I answered, smiling in spite of myself. "I have
not been picking, or stealing, or abducting any young woman, or courting
my neighbour's wife; but I am worried and perplexed. When I sleep I have
dreadful dreams--horrible dreams," I added, shuddering.
"Can you tell me what is worrying and perplexing you?" he asked, kindly,
after a moment's thought.
"Not yet, Ned," I answered; "though I expect I shall have to tell
you soon. Give me something to make me sleep quietly: that is all I
want now."
"Can't you go out of town?" he inquired.
"I do not want to go out of town," I answered.
"I will make you up something to strengthen your nerves," he said, after
a pause; "but if you are not better--well, before the end of the week,
take my advice, and run down to Brighton over Sunday. Now, you ought to
give me a guinea for that," he added, laughing. "I assure you, all the
gold-headed cane, all the wonderful chronometer doctors who pocket
thousands per annum at the West End, could make no more of your case
than I have done.
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