Later on, they were to recall this peaceful forecast with amazement. At present it seemed a dream of everything the heart could desire; they fell into a happy discussion of ways and means, of the best places to buy fishing-tackle, of the clothes demanded by bogs and heathery mountains; until a nurse arrived with tea, and a warning word that the patients had talked nearly enough. At which the patients waxed indignant, declaring that their visitors had only been with them about ten minutes.
“Ten minutes!” said the nurse, round-eyed. “Over an hour—and doctor’s orders were——”
“Never you mind the doctor’s orders,” Jim said solemnly. “Doctors don’t know everything. Why, in Boulogne——” He broke off, assuming an air of meek unconsciousness of debate as the doctor himself appeared suddenly.
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, transfixing patients with an eagle glance, while the nurse made an unobtrusive escape. “You were saying something about doctors, I think?”
“Nothing, I assure you, sir,” said Jim, grinning widely.
“Doctors—and Boulogne,” repeated the new-comer, firmly. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“No, sir. Certainly not,” said Jim. “The doctors in Boulogne are very hard-worked.”
“H’m!” said his medical attendant, receiving this piece of information with the suspicion it merited. “Quite so. We’re all hard-worked, these times, chiefly with looking after bad boys who ought to be back at school, getting swished. It’s an awful fate for a respectable M.D.” He gazed severely at the cheerful faces on the pillows. “You ought to be asleep; and of course you are not. Is this a hospital ward, or an Australian picnic?”
“Both,” said Wally, laughing. “Don’t be rough on us, doctor; it isn’t every day we kill a pig!”
The doctor stared.