'The first sore throat of the season, no doubt,' he muttered to
himself.
Nor was he disappointed. By Tuesday the cold had firm grip of
him. A day or two of influenza or sore throat always made him so
weak that with difficulty he supported the least physical
exertion; but at present he must go to his work at the hospital.
Why stay at home? To what purpose spare himself? It was not as if
life had any promise for him. He was a machine for earning so
much money a week, and would at least give faithful work for his
wages until the day of final breakdown.
But, midway in the week, Carter discovered how ill his clerk was.
'You ought to be in bed, my dear fellow, with gruel and mustard
plasters and all the rest of it. Go home and take care of
yourself--I insist upon it.'
Before leaving the office, Reardon wrote a few lines to Biffen,
whom he had visited on the Monday. 'Come and see me if you can. I
am down with a bad cold, and have to keep in for the rest of the
week. All the same, I feel far more cheerful. Bring a new chapter
of your exhilarating romance.
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