The murmurings and dissensions of the other patients seemed to have quite a good effect upon old Matt, who forgot his own pains in the troubles of those around him.
“You don’t know how much longer you will be here?” said Septimus.
“Not for certain, sir; but I think only for a few more days. But it’s wonderful what a difference they have made in me. I mean to go in for a fortune, sir, as soon as I’m out; and then I shall make my will, and leave half to the hospital. Now I’ve got the worst of it all over, I amuse myself with taking a bit of notice of what goes on around me, and listening to what’s said; and it’s wonderful what an amount of misery comes into this place—wonderful. I’ve known of more trouble since I’ve been in here, sir, than I should have thought there had been in the whole of London; and that’s saying no little, sir. Lots die, you know; but then see how many they send out cured. I don’t see all, but one hears so much from the talking of the nurses. I expected when I came here that there would be plenty of accidents, broken bones—legs, arms, and ribs, and so on; but there, bless you, the place is full of it; and they’re getting to such a wonderful pitch now, with their doctoring and surgery, that they’ll be making a new man next, out of the odd bits they always have on hand here.”
“I suppose so,” said Septimus drily.
“Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said Matt; “but it’s wonderful to what a pitch surgery has got. Now, for instance, just fancy—”
“There,” cried Septimus, “pray stop, or I must leave you. I fancy quite enough involuntarily, without wishing to hear fresh horrors. It’s bad enough having to come into the place.”
“Lor’ bless you, sir,” said Matt, “you should listen to the nurses, when one of ’em happens to be in a good humour. Do you know when that is, sir?”
“When pleased, I suppose,” said Septimus.
“Just so, sir; the very time. And when do you suppose that last is?”
Septimus shook his head.