"It is not one day in a dozen you would have
found me here at this hour. Sit down, and have some steak. Can't
eat--why, what's the matter, man? You don't mean to say you have got
another nervous attack. If you have, I declare I shall lodge a complaint
against you with Mr. Craven."
"I am not nervous," I answered; "but I have caught cold, and I want you
to put me to rights."
"Wait till I have finished my dinner," he replied; and then he proceeded
to cut himself another piece of steak--having demolished which, and seen
cheese placed on the table, he said:
"Now, Harry, we'll get to business, if you please. Where is this cold
you were talking about?"
I explained as well as I could, and he listened to me without
interruption. When I had quite finished, he said:
"Hal Patterson, you are either becoming a hypochondriac, or you are
treating me to half confidences. Your cold is not worth speaking about.
Go home, and get to bed, and take a basin of gruel, or a glass of
something hot, after you are in bed, and your cold will be well in the
morning. But there is something more than a cold the matter with you.
What has come to you, to make a few rheumatic pains and a slight sore
throat seem of consequence in your eyes?"
"I am afraid of being ill," I answered.
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