"Now, Mr Cash, we will get Mr Inglethwaite a drink and send him to bed.
He has not had a decent night's rest for a fortnight. We trust to you
not to talk of the child's illness to anybody,--that is the _only_ way
to avoid making capital of it,--and if you will call here to-morrow
after breakfast I will guarantee that your Candidate will be fit and
ready to go round the polling-booths with you, and"--he put his hand on
my shoulder--"set an example to all of us."
Cash, completely pulverised, departed as bidden, desolated over this
renunciation of eleemosynary votes; and Robin, Champion, and I finished
our supper in peace,--if one can call it peace when there is no peace.
Champion was leaving by the night mail, for he had promised to address a
meeting two hundred miles away next day. His cab was already at the
door, and we said good-bye to him on the hotel steps.
He shook hands with me in silence, and turned to Robin.
"Three fingers, and not too much soda, and then put him straight to
bed," he commanded.
Then he turned to me again.
"Don't sit up and worry, old man," he said. "Go to bed, anyhow. The
doctor and your womenfolk will do all that can be done. Your duties
commence to-morrow. Keep your tail up, and face it out. _Noblesse
oblige_, you know. Good-night."
He drove away, and Robin and I returned to the sitting-room.
Robin mixed me a stiff whisky-and-soda.
"Champion's prescription," he said. "Down with it!"