suggested the fountain-pen filler. They washed the ink out of it, and used it to drip the hot brandy-and-milk down the puppies' throats. Their noses, which had been icy, suddenly became very hot and dry. Gissing feared a fever and thought their temperatures should be taken.
“The only thermometer we have,” he said, “is the one on the porch, with the mercury split in two. I don't suppose that would do. Have you a clinical thermometer, Fuji?”
Fuji felt that his employer was making too much fuss over the matter.
“No, sir,” he said firmly. “They are quite all right. A good sleep will revive them. They will be as fit as possible in the morning.”
Fuji went out into the garden to brush the mud from his neat white jacket. His face was inscrutable. Gissing sat by the spare-room bed until he was sure the puppies were sleeping correctly. He closed the door so that Fuji would not hear him humming a lullaby. Three Blind Mice was the only nursery song he could remember, and he sang it over and over again.
When he tiptoed downstairs, Fuji had gone to bed. Gissing went into his study, lit a pipe, and
