“I didn’t care,” said Frankie. “I liked to be there. I liked—” He paused. “I liked the smell of the hospital,” he continued earnestly.
“You’re a funny kid!” said Dr. Joe, laughing.
Frankie did not seem to care for this. He turned away again and made for the door, and this time Dr. Joe stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t care!” said the boy.
Now the words themselves had very little significance; it was the spirit behind them that conquered Dr. Joe. The boy was obviously frightened by that heavy hand on his shoulder. He was only eight, and he lived in a child’s world. He had no understanding of these all-powerful grown people, who laughed or flew into tempers for no reason at all. He thought Dr. Joe was angry, and he was frightened—his eyes showed that; but his mouth set in a firm, sulky line, and once more he declared that he didn’t care.
“By Jove!” cried Dr. Joe. “I will take you!”
III
It was the first time Dr. Joe had ever been alone with a child. Of course he had visited innumerable sick children, and had been very popular with them, but he was ashamed now to remember the sort of things he had said to other children of Frankie’s age.
“Talked about bunnies and pussy cats!” he thought. “Must have made a regular idiot of myself. This child’s exceptional, though.”
That comforted him. He was convinced by this time that there was not and never had been another child like Frankie. He couldn’t have explained this, and he wouldn’t have tried.