“You’re a revelation, you’re an actress, you are wonderful! Why, Little Arnold, is it really you? Oh, James! James! you don’t know what she’s done—you don’t know half of it!”
And as we hurried home, they half-carrying me between them, the young doctors and the crazy-acting little widow traversed the Boston streets, hilarious over the whole proceeding. Laidlaw explained to James what a signal triumph it was, in that he had not only known of the joke on Fenton, but also knew that I intended trying a similar one on him. This appeased James’s chagrin somewhat, still he was badly cut up over it; but Laidlaw magnanimously gave me all the credit imaginable, fairly rejoicing in having been so duped by me. As we neared the hospital, however, it dawned upon both of them what laughing-stocks they would be when the thing was noised around, especially when Breynton and Hummel, of the Dispensary-staff, learned of it; so nothing would do but that I should try the same scheme on them. They assured me I could do it easily, even with them looking on; and as they would let Jack know that they were back and within call, I need have no compunctions. So, dropping behind, while they sauntered up to the College steps where Breynton and Hummel sat smoking and complaining of the hot night, I soon came hobbling up to the group. And Laidlaw and James soon had the satisfaction of seeing Breynton and Hummel walk off with the little widow—and in the course of an hour, walk back again, chagrined beyond words, but somewhat mollified when they learned that their colleagues had also been victimized in the same way. Each man rejoiced that the others were in the same box. The double, yes, triple, hoax, served for conversation for many a week. If one would instance some proof of the density of the others, he would soon be silenced by fresh proofs of his own asininity. “It was a famous victory” was their ever-generous verdict, and it only cemented the camaraderie among us.
As the time approached for Laidlaw’s term to expire I began to be wretched, at first hardly realizing, much less acknowledging to myself, that it was because he was leaving. I was even less friendly, less responsive, and, as the time drew near, more inclined to stay in my room than usual. Dr. Reynolds, a keen little woman who was much about the hospital in those days, suspected the cause of my glumness. One evening as she was calling on me and rallying me on moping in my room alone instead of staying down in the office, a knock on my door arrested her banter.
“Who’s there?” I called.
The door opened a crack, and Laidlaw’s voice announced, “I’m here—you are wanted down in the office.”
“Who wants me?”
“I want you,” and with that he pushed open the door, and to his confusion (and mine) encountered Dr. Reynolds’s merry, mischievous eyes, the occurrence, of course, only serving to confirm her in her belief that there was something more than good-fellowship between us. Laidlaw and James often rang my bell of an evening, summoning me to the office, when it was only they who wanted me. They knew that I never dared disregard it, for fear it might be a call to the wards; once down there, I was usually easily persuaded to stay.
That night after Dr. Reynolds left, I went down, but when reading aloud was proposed, did not fall in with the proposition—the good times we had all had together were so soon to end—I was in no mood for reading aloud. We sat near each other, each busy with his own book, or pretending to be. Later, having dropped my book, I was looking out of the window, fearing Laidlaw would see my tell-tale face, when, presently, taking me by the shoulder, he gently turned me round facing him:
“What are you doing, Little Arnold?”
“Thinking.”