"Don't—jerk—it—so!" she admonished hazily, "You'll wake the Little
Girl!"
"Well, what about my convenience, I'd like to know?" snapped the Senior
Surgeon in some astonishment.
Heavily the White Linen Nurse's lashes shadowed down again across her sleep-flushed cheeks.
"Oh, never mind—about—that," she mumbled non-concernedly.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake—wake up there!" bellowed the Senior Surgeon above the sudden roar of his engine.
Adroitly for a man of his bulk he ran around the radiator and jumped into his seat. Joggled unmercifully into wakefulness, the Little Girl greeted his return with a generous if distinctly non-tactful demonstration of affection. Grabbing the unwitting fingers of his momentarily free hand she tapped them proudly against the White Linen Nurse's plump pink cheek.
"See! I call her 'Peach'!" she boasted joyously with all the triumphant air of one who felt assured that mental discrimination such as this could not possibly fail to impress even a person so naturally obtuse as—a father.
"Don't be foolish!" snarled the Senior Surgeon.
"Who? Me?" gasped the White Linen Nurse in a perfect agony of confusion.
"Yes! You!" snapped the Senior Surgeon explosively half an hour later after interminable miles of absolute silence—and dingy yellow field-stubble—and bare brown alder bushes.