and from his stomach to his neck, accompanied by an animated grunting.
“Well, thank God,” said the doctor finally, and settled his spectacles on his nose. “We'll fix up that little wheezing in the chest, and the heart—well, that’ll adjust itself, eh?” He bent over Prokop, poked his fingers through his hair and raised and lowered his eyelids with his finger. “No more sleeping, see?” he said, and at the same time looked at the pupils of his eyes. “We’ll get some books and do some reading. We’ll eat a little, drink a glass of wine and keep still. I shan’t bite you.”
“What’s the matter with me?” asked Prokop timidly. The doctor drew himself up. “Well, nothing now. Listen, where did you come from?”
“What?”
“We picked you up from the floor, and . . . where did you come from, man?”
“I don’t know. From Prague, perhaps,” Prokop recalled.
The doctor shook his head. “By train from Prague! With the membrane of your brain inflamed? Were you mad? Do you know what it is?”
“What?”
“Meningitis. The sleeping form of it, and added to that inflammation of the lungs. 104, eh? My friend, one doesn’t go out on expeditions when one has that sort of thing. And do you know that—well, shew me your right hand, quick!”
“That . . . was only a scratch,” Prokop justified himself.
“A nice sort of scratch. Blood poisoning, you understand? When you are well I shall tell you
