“In the meantime,” I ventured to observe, “he is getting worse.”

“In the meantime,” said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, “as Miss Summerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting worse.  Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets still worse.”

The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never forget.

“Of course, little woman,” observed my guardian, turning to me, “I can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going there to enforce it, though it’s a bad state of things when, in his condition, that is necessary.  But it’s growing late, and is a very bad night, and the boy is worn out already.  There is a bed in the wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed.  We’ll do that.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the piano as we moved away.  “Are you going back to our young friend?”

“Yes,” said my guardian.

“How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!” returned Mr. Skimpole with playful admiration.  “You don’t mind these things; neither does Miss Summerson.  You are ready at all times to go anywhere, and do anything.  Such is will!  I have no will at all—­and no won’t—­simply can’t.”

“You can’t recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?” said my guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an accountable being.

“My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his pocket, and it’s impossible for him to do better than take it.  You can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm.  But it is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation.  Miss Summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for the administration of detail that she knows all about it.”

We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed to do, which Charley explained to him again and which he received with the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on at what was done as if it were for somebody else.  The servants compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help, we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the house carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up.  It was pleasant to observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to be a general impression among them that frequently calling him “Old Chap” was likely to revive his spirits.  Charley directed the operations and went to and fro between the loft-room and the house with such little stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him.  My guardian himself saw him before he was left for the night and reported to me when he returned to the growlery to write a letter on the boy’s behalf, which a messenger was charged to deliver at day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and inclined to sleep.  They had fastened his door on the outside, he said, in case of his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not make any noise without being heard.