"Georgie"
"What have you done?" I asked.
"Yesterday," Georgie said, "I went to Gaythorpes to see the Linnet. I got a pass from his father, and went boldly in to see him. He's as sane as I am."
"Impossible," said I gravely.
"You needn't hint things." He flushed.
"He's as sane as you if you like it better, and he's simply dying for a game. His piffling asphalt tennis and badminton have kept him in form lately, and he thinks he's in a convalescent home for his liver. He says most of the other chaps are inebriates—see things, don't you know, and his fancying that, was the only queer thing about him. The doctor's a jolly, hearty old beggar, and the assistant is quite a decent chap. He's the man who keeps up the athletics in the place, and he played for Guy's when he was walking the hospitals. He's no end of a sportsman. It's a fine old place kept up just like an ordinary country house, and they've a ripping little stage in the recreation room. I don't believe the poor devils have half a bad
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