He is a stout man, too. Grossly
out of condition, like ninety-nine per cent of men to-day."
"I'm not so young as I was, ma'am," protested George. "When I was in
the harmy I was a fine figure of a man."
"The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,"
commented Mrs. Porter. "Beer?"
A grateful smile irradiated George's face.
"Thank you, ma'am. It's very kind of you, ma'am. I don't mind if I do."
"The man appears a perfect imbecile," said Mrs. Porter, turning
abruptly to Kirk. "I ask him if he attributes his physical decay to
beer and he babbles."
"I think he thought you were offering him a drink," suggested Kirk. "As
a matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn't hurt him, after the shock he
has had."
"On no account. The worst thing possible."
"This isn't your lucky day, George," said Kirk. "Well, I guess I'll
phone to the doctor."
"Quite unnecessary."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Entirely unnecessary. I have made an examination. There is practically
nothing the matter with the man. Put him to bed, and let him sponge his
knee with warm water."
"Are you a doctor, Mrs. Porter?"
"I have studied first aid."
"Well, I think, if you don't mind, I should like to have your opinion
confirmed."
This was rank mutiny. Mrs. Porter stared haughtily at Kirk. He met her
gaze with determination.
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