Part 110 (2/2)

”You are too weak, sir. Lie still. No one shall harm you. The doctor is coming.”

Philip sank back with a look of fear. ”Water,” he cried feebly.

”Here it is,” said Jem-y-Lord, lifting from the dressing-table the jug out of which he had moistened the sponge.

”Tut!” cried Pete, and he tipped the jug so that half the water spilled.

”Brandy for a man when he's in bed, you goosey gander. Hould, hard, boy; I've a taste of the rael stuff in the cupboard. Half a minute, mate.

A drop will be doing no harm at all,” and away he went down the stairs like a flood, almost sweeping over Nancy, who had come creeping up in her stockings at the sound of voices.

The child had awakened in its cradle, and, with one dumpy leg over its little quilt, it was holding quiet converse with its toes.

”Hollo, young c.o.c.kalorum, is it there you are!” shouted Pete.

At the next moment, with a noggin bottle of brandy in his fist, he was leaping upstairs, three steps at a time.

Meanwhile Jem-y-Lord had edged up to the Deemster and whispered, with looks of fear and mystery, ”Don't take it, sir.”

”What?” said Philip vacantly.--”The brandy,” said Jem.

”Eh?”

”It will be----” began Jem, but Pete's step was thundering up the stairs, and with a big opening of the mouth, rather than an audible utterance of the tongue, he added, ”poisoned.”

Philip could not comprehend, and Pete came shouting--

”Where's your water, now, ould Snuff-the-Wind?”

While Pete was pouring the brandy into a gla.s.s and adding the water, Jemmy caught up a sc.r.a.p of newspaper that was lying about, rummaged for a pencil, wrote some words on the margin, tore the piece off, and smuggled it into the Deemster's hand.

”Afraid of Pete!” thought Philip. ”It is monstrous! monstrous!”

At that moment there was the sound of a horse's hoofs on the road.

”The doctor,” cried Jem-y-Lord. ”The doctor at last. Wait, sir, wait,”

and he ran downstairs.

”Here you are,” cried Pete, coming to the bedside, gla.s.s in hand. ”Drink it up, boy. It'll stiffen you. My faith, but it's a oner. Aw, G.o.d is good, though. He's all that. He's good tremenjous.”

Pete was laughing; he was crying; he was tasting a new sweetness--the sweetness of being a good man again.

Philip was holding Jem-y-Lord's paper before his eyes, and trying to read it.

”What's this that Jemmy has given me?” he said. ”Read it, Pete. My eyes are dazed.”

Pete took the paper in his left hand, still holding the gla.s.s in his right. To get the light on to the writing he went down on his knees by the bed-head and leaned over towards the fire. Then, like a school-boy repeating his task, he read in a singsong voice the words that Jem-y-Lord had written:--”Don't drink the brandy. Pete is trying to kill you.”

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