Old Buckboard whipped his nags to a canter, and got back in less than the quarter-hour. Then he saw the injury.
"Christ!" he said; "if I'd seen that, their bloomin' cream cud a' gone t'ell."
"Yes, I know," said old Bill. "That's why I didn't show it yer."
After it was fixed up at the hospital, the doctor was sympathising with him.
"'S all right, Doc," he broke in; "I'll be savin' footgear now."
The weeks passed on, and I, being personally associated with the rest of the staff, saw things that the casual patient never heeds. For instance, the gentle, patient nurses, never out of temper, always calm, cool and prompt. No complaints, despite the comparatively meagre pay and long hours; the querulous complaints of sick men, made irritable by long hours of pain, passing over them like water off a duck's back, or to be met with a cheerful smile, and a "Well, now, cheer up; it's not that bad, I'm sure." Only when off duty and "done up" does the mask drop a little. And mighty little real gratitude they get from the average patient, or thanks either, beyond a few conventional phrases.
Just before I left the hospital there came tragedy to my selection. Old Paddy and a mate were falling my road, the council having decided to fall all roads adjacent to cleared selections, and the son of a neighbouring selector, a lad some twelve years old, used to bring their tucker out to them. On this occasion the lad had stopped to watch them let a big drive go, although they had told him to trot along. Paddy's mate was at work on the driver, while he himself was brushing round their next drive.
A call: "Look out, Paddy; she's crackin'."
Paddy trotted along to the boy, who was astride a slow old mare that wouldn't get a move on. "Come on, kid. Git a bit further off. Told yer t' git outer this before."
A wild yell: "She's comin' back! Run, man, run!! Oh, Gord! the boy!"