“Wot oh!” said Joe to his wife, when they were left alone with the unconscious body of their master.  “Poor old Guv!  Watch and pray!”

“However could you have given him such a thing?”

“Wet outside, wet your inside,” muttered Joe sulkily, “’as always been my motto.  Sorry I give ‘im the honey.  Who’d ha’ thought the product of an ’armless insect could ’a done ’im in like this?”

Fiddle said Mrs. Petty.  “In my belief it’s come on through reading those newspapers.  If I had my way I’d bum the lot.  Can I trust you to watch him while I go and get the bottles filled?”

Joe drooped his lids over his greenish eyes, and, with a whisk of her head, his wife left the room.

“Gawd ’elp us!” thought Joe, gazing at his unconscious master, and fingering his pipe; “’ow funny women are!  If I was to smoke in ’ere she’d have a fit.  I’ll just ’ave a whiff in the window, though!” And, leaning out, he drew the curtains to behind him and lighted his pipe.

The sound of Blink gnawing her bone beneath the bed alone broke the silence.

“I could do with a pint o’ bitter,” thought Joe; and, noticing the form of the weekly gardener down below, he said softly: 

“’Ello, Bob!”

“’Ello?” replied the gardener. “’Ow’s yours?”

“Nicely.”

“Goin’ to ’ave some rain?”

“Ah!”

“What’s the, matter with that?”

“Good for the crops.”

“Missis well?”

“So, so.”

“Wish mine was.”

“Wot’s the matter with her?”

“Busy!” replied Joe, sinking his voice.  Never ’ave a woman permanent; that’s my experience.

The gardener did not reply, but stood staring at the lilac-bush below Joe Petty’s face.  He was a thin man, rather like an old horse.

“Do you think we can win this war?” resumed Joe.

“Dunno,” replied the gardener apathetically.

“We seem to be goin’ back nicely all the time.”

Joe wagged his head.  “You’ve ’it it,” he said.  And, jerking his head back towards the room behind him, “Guv’nor’s got it now.”

“What?”

“The new disease.”

“What new disease?”

“Wy, the Run-abaht-an-tell-’em-’ow-to-do-it.”

“Ah!”

“’E’s copped it fair.  In bed.”

“You don’t say!”

“Not ’alf!” Joe sank his voice still lower.  “Wot’ll you bet me I don’t ketch it soon?”

The gardener uttered a low gurgle.

“The cats ’ave been in that laylock,” he replied, twisting off a broken branch.  “I’ll knock off now for a bit o’ lunch.”

But at that moment the sound of a voice speaking as it might be from a cavern, caused him and Joe Petty to stare at each other as if petrified.

“Wot is it?” whispered Joe at last.

The gardener jerked his head towards a window on the ground floor.

“Someone in pain,” he said.