“Fine, Mike, fine. Never better,” responded the patient.
“Meet my friend, Mr. Percy Jones.” The introduction was impaired as the stenographer’s attention was devoted to frowning down masculine giggles reminiscent of the reference to the illustrious movie star.
That the social exigencies of the moment might not be overlooked, Kelly dug a finger into the stenographer’s side.
Mr. Jones undulated as to a measure of the Hula Hula. “Wough,” he yelled. “Wot cher doin’?”
Happy laughter arose from nearby beds.
Miss Knight swept her recumbent charges with a glance of stern reproof. “Where’s your manners?” she demanded. “Cut out this rough stuff or–” she paused for effect and then launched this terrifying threat–“you’ll get no ice cream on Wednesday.” The male surgical cases quailed before this menace of cruel and unusual punishment. Peace reigned.
“Gentlemen, be seated,” invited Joe, in the rich and mellow tones of an interlocutor.
Miss Knight departed. Mr. Jones sat down in the only chair and Kelly made preparations to rest his huge form on the bed of the injured one.
Joe viewed this arrangement with alarm. “Don’t you sit on my broken leg, you hippopotamus,” he protested.
Kelly withdrew so hastily that he nearly knocked Mr. Jones off his chair.