The Hospital! No matter how sick I felt while tramping across the country, if I thought I might be sent to the hospital I always found strength to go on.
"I'm quite ill now, but not ill enough to be in Garofoli's way," he went on in his weak, drawling voice, "but I'm getting weaker. Garofoli, fortunately, hasn't given up beating me entirely. He beat me on the head eight days ago and, look, it's all swelled out now. You see here, this big bump? He told me yesterday it was a tumor, and the way that he spoke I believe that it's something serious. It hurts awful. I'm so giddy at night when I put my head on the pillow I moan and cry. So I think in two or three days he'll decide to send me to the hospital. I was in the hospital once, and the Sisters speak so kind to you. They say, 'Put out your tongue, little boy,' and 'There's a good boy,' every time you do anything they tell you to do. I think I am almost had enough now to be sent there."
He came and stood quite close to me, fixing his great eyes on me. Even though I had not the same reason for hiding the truth from him, I did not like to tell him how terrible he looked with his great glittering eyes, his hollow cheeks, and his bloodless lips.
"I should think you're ill enough to go to the hospital," I said.
"At last!"
With dragging limbs he went slowly over to the table and began to wipe it.
"Garofoli will be here shortly," he said; "we mustn't talk any more."
Wearily he went round the table, placing the plates and spoons. I counted twenty plates. So Garofoli had twenty boys. As I only saw twelve beds, they evidently slept, some of them, two in a bed. What beds! what sheets! the coverlets must have been brought from the stables when they were too old and not warm enough for the horses!
"Don't you come here," said the boy, "Try to get somewhere else."