"He's really not fit. But if he insists on doing the one he might as well do the other."
"Righto!"—from the patient.
"Will you tell Kuroki to make it a beefsteak breakfast for four? I know how Mr. Hawksley feels. Been through the same bout." Cutty wanted Miss Frances out of the room.
"Very well. Only, I've warned him." Miss Frances left, somewhat miffed.
"Thanks," said Hawksley, smiling. "She thinks I'm a canary."
"Whereas you're an eagle."
"Or a vulture."
Cutty drew up a chair. "Frankly, I believe a good breakfast will put you a peg up."
"A beefsteak!" Hawksley stared ecstatically at the ceiling. "You see, I'm naturally tough. Always went in for rough sports—football, rowing, boxing. Poor old Stefani's idea; and not so bad, either. Of course he was always worrying about my hands; but I always took great care to keep them soft and pliant. Which sounds rummy, considering the pounding I used to give and take. My word, I used to go to bed with my hands done up in ointments like a professional beauty! Of course I'm dizzy yet, and the bally spot is sore; but solid food and some exercise will have me off your hands in no time. I don't fancy being coddled, y'know. I've been trouble enough."
