He nods. I hold up the piece of metal which has lain buried in him these past three weeks. It has the number 20 engraved on it. That satisfies him. The blood which has come from between his lips is in a bowl placed too high for him to see.
Through the crack in the screens the man in the bed opposite watches us unwinkingly.
Eight o'clock.... Here is Sister with the syringe: he will sleep now and I can go home.
If one did not forget the hospital when one leaves it, life wouldn't be very nice.
From pillar to post....
The dairyman, who has been gone to another hospital these five weeks, returned to-day, saying miserably as he walked into the ward, "Me 'ead's queerer than ever." His eyes, I think, are larger too, and he has still that manner of looking as though he thought some one could do something for him.
I can't—beyond raising the smallest of tablets to him with the inscription, "Another farthing spent...."
Waker had a birthday yesterday and got ten post cards and a telegram. But that is as nothing to another anniversary.
"A year to-morrow I got my wound—two o'clock to-morrow morning."
"Shall you be awake, Waker?"