"No, I can't discover his address anywhere."
"Look in his Sunday hat. I always kept mine there when I was a boy, and never knew a boy who didn't."
"Well," said the doctor, "it's a pity. A mother's the proper person to be with him a time like this. She'll never-- What's this?"
It was an envelope slipped behind the bookcase, containing a bill from Splicer, the London cricket-bat-maker, dated a year ago. At the foot the tradesman had written, "Hon. sir, sorry we could not get bat in time to send home, so forward to you direct to Grandcourt School, by rail."
"There we are," said the doctor, putting the document in his pocket. "This ought to bring mamma in twenty-four hours. The telegraph office is shut now, but we'll wake Mr Splicer up early, and have mamma under weigh by midday. Good-night, Railsford--keep the pot boiling, my good fellow--I'll look round early."
He was gone, and Railsford with sinking heart set himself to the task before him. He long remembered that night. It seemed at first as if the doctor's gloomy predictions were to be falsified, for Branscombe continued long in a half-slumber, and even appeared to be more tranquil than he had been during the afternoon.
Railsford sat near the fire and watched him; and for two hours the stillness of the room was only broken by the lively ticking of the little clock on the mantelpiece, and the laboured breathing of the sufferer.
He was nearly asleep when a cry from the bed suddenly roused him.
Railsford went to his side and quietly replaced the covering which had been tossed aside.
"Clip! look alive--he's coming--don't say a word, hang on to his legs, you know--_En jam tempus erat_--Munger, you cad, why don't you come? _Italiam fato profugus_. Hah! got you, my man. Shove him in, quick! Strike a light, do you hear? here they come. What are you doing, Clip?--turn him face up. That's for blackguarding me before the whole house! Clip put me up to it. Don't cut and leave me in the lurch, I say. You're locking me in the boot-box!--let me out--I'm in for the mile, you know. Who's got my shoes? _Pastor_ _cum traheret per freta navibus_. Well run, sir! He's giving out! I say, I say. I can't keep it up. I must stop. Clip, you put me up to it, old man. It'll never come out--never--never. He thinks it was Railsford, ho, ho! I'll never do such a thing again. Come along--sharp--coast's clear!"