Shawn. (Feebly.) You’ve been very quick, sir.

Carve.  I found a red lamp only three doors off.  He’ll be along in half a minute.

Shawn.  Did you explain what it was, sir?

Carve. (Genially.) How could I explain what it was, you fool, when I don’t know?  I simply asked to see the doctor, and I told him there was a fellow-creature suffering at No. 126, and would he come at once. “126?” he said, “126 has been shut up for years.”

Shawn. (Trying to smile.) What did you say, sir?

Carve.  I said (articulating with clearness) a hundred and twenty-six—­and ran off.  Then he yelled out after me that he’d come instantly....  I say, Shawn, we’re discovered.  I could tell that from his sudden change of tone.  I bet the entire street knows that the celebrated Me has arrived at last.  I feel like a criminal already, dashed if I don’t!  I wish we’d gone to a hotel now. (Walks about.) I say, did you make up the bed?

Shawn.  I was just doing it, sir.

Carve.  But what about sheets and so on?

Shawn.  I bought some this morning, ready hemmed, sir—­with those and the travelling rug——­

Carve.  Well, don’t you think you could work your passage out to the bed? 
With my help?

Shawn.  Me in your bed, sir!

Carve. (Genially bullying.) Keep on in that tone—­and I’ll give you the sack on the spot.  Now then.  Try—­before the doctor comes. (Bell rings.)

Shawn.  The bell, sir—­excuse me.

Carve.  Confound——­

     (Exit carve.)

     (Shawn coughs and puts a handkerchief to his mouth.  Carve
     returns immediately with Dr. Pascoe.)

Pascoe. (Glancing round quickly.) This the patient? (Goes to Shawn, and looks at him.  Then, taking a clinical thermometer from his pocket and wiping it; with marked respect.) Allow me to put this under your tongue for half a minute. (Having done so, he takes Shawn’s wrist and, looking at his watch, counts the patient’s pulse.  Then turning to carve, in a low curt voiced) When did this begin?

Carve.  Just now.  That is, he only began to complain about six o’clock.  We arrived in London this morning from Madrid.

Pascoe. (Reading thermometer.) Temperature 104-1/2.  Pulse is 140—­and weak.  I must have some boiling water.

Carve. (At a loss.) What for?

Pascoe.  What for?  For a poultice.

Carve. (Helplessly.) But there isn’t any ... we’ve nothing except this spirit-lamp. (Pointing to lamp on table.)

Pascoe.  No women in the house?

Carve. (With humour that the doctor declines to see.) Not one.

Pascoe. (Controlling his exasperation.) Never mind.  I’ll run round to the surgery and get my hypodermic. (To Shawn, reassuringly and deferentially.) I shall be back at once, Mr. Carve. (To carve, near door.) Keep your master well covered up—­I suppose you can do that?