“Two or three times I nearly told the nurse,” he continued, half-shamefacedly; “the pain was pretty bad, I couldn’t go to sleep for it, and I thought I’d like Poppet to come,”—he gave her hand a rough squeeze,—“but then I used to stuff the blanket in my mouth and bite it, and it kept me from telling [147] ]her. I used to have to shut my eyes so I shouldn’t see her coming to my end of the ward; I used to get so frightened I’d say it without meaning to.”
“And then,” said Meg—the narration was almost too painful—“what did you do then—when you got better?”
The rest of the story he hurried over; it made him shudder a little to think of it all, now he was lying in this dear old room with two faces full of love close to him.
He had not been strong enough for any regular work after he came from the hospital. He had twelve shillings of his wages left, and this kept him for a fortnight, with the help of what he received for an odd job or two. The last week had been the worst of all. On Saturday he had elevenpence only left; he lived on it that day, Sunday, and Monday, sleeping in the Domain at night. On Tuesday he had in the course of his wanderings come to Malcolm’s favourite restaurant, and lingered around it, trying to feed his poor hungry body with the appetising smells that issued from the door. At last he could bear it no longer; he went in and asked if they wanted a boy to wash up or wait, offering to do so in return for food and a bed at night. They had been very pushed for help, for one of the waiters had fallen ill, and they told him [148] ]he could try it for a day or two. All Tuesday he worked hard there, washing up, peeling potatoes, running errands; the meals seemed more than ample repayment to him in his half-starved state.
On Wednesday the absent waiter had sent word to say he would be at his duties the following day. Just as Bunty was lading his tray to carry it round he dropped a couple of tumblers,—he had broken two or three things the previous day,—and the manager in annoyance told him he could stay the rest of the day but need not come back to-morrow. Sick at heart at the thought of the streets again, the poor boy had picked up his tray and gone out into the big room with it.
And the next minute there came that wild, glad shriek, and Poppet had flung herself upon him half mad with joy.
Just as the tale ended Nellie burst into the room. She went straight over to the sofa and fell down on her knees beside it.
“Oh, how can you ever forgive us, Bunty!” she said, tears brimming over in her eyes. “Oh, Bunty, I shall never forgive myself, never!”
Esther had followed, her face shining with gladness. “Mr. Burnham is here,” she said, “and——”
“Bunty never did it, ’twath Bully Hawkinth!” [149] ]burst out Peter, pushing Nellie aside, and actually trying to kiss his injured brother in his excitement.