The eyes that were buried deep in the pillow were the only pair that were not turned upon the group in the doorway. The hospital children knew nothing about the Billabong invasion; only the nurses had been told of the unusual offer that had come over the telephone that morning. It seemed to the Matron a little uncertain, peculiar; better, perhaps, not to excite the children by anticipation.
But the first glimpse of the newcomers was sufficient—the children of the very poor are not slow brained. Something like a thrill of delight ran through the ward. There was no mistaking these people—happy-faced and well-dressed, and laden with fascinating parcels that could only mean one kind of thing. The eyes were very bright, watching from the cots.
It was a surgical ward, and most of the inmates looked happy. Life is not at all unbearable when you are a surgical case. To be a “medical” means headaches, and fevers, and soaring temperatures, and other unpleasant things. You are not allowed to eat anything interesting, and you frequently desire only to keep extremely quiet. But the “surgicals” know fairly well what to expect. Pain comes, of course—plenty of it; and the daily visits of the doctors are apt to leave you a bit short of self-control, even if you bite the pillow extremely hard in your efforts to show that there is decent pluck in you. But after a time you forget that. The ache in your leg, or your back, or your hip, or perhaps all over you, becomes part of the programme, and you learn to put up with it; and there is much of interest with other “cases” to talk to, songs to sing, and games that the sick can play—and nurses who are often very jolly and delightful. The nurse in this ward was little and dark and merry, and the boys called her “Brown Eyes.” She had a knack of helping you through almost any pain.
She welcomed the newcomers cheerily now, though her eyes were a little tired. Behind her the faces were alight with silent eagerness.
“Can we talk to them?” Norah asked, shyly.
“Why, of course!” said the nurse. “You’ll find most of them great chatterboxes—except little Tommy there. His pain is bad to-day.”
The boys were quite ready to talk. They told all about themselves glibly, with a full appreciating of their value as “cases.”
“I had a daisy of a temp’rature, I had!” said a cheerful soul of nine. “Doctor he came three times a day. Better now.”
“Mine’s a leg,” volunteered another. “Broke—a cart runned over me. They brought me up from South Gippsland—sledge first, and then in the guard’s van.” He shivered—a reminiscent shudder. “Sledge was a fair cow!—bumped till I went an’ fainted with the pain.” He gave other details that set Jean and Norah shuddering, too. “But the guard’s van wasn’t half bad fun—y’see, I hadn’t never been in a train before. My word, that guard was a kind man! Went an’ bought me oranges with his own money!”
“Oh, I’m near right again,” a merry-faced little Jewish lad told them. “Had me stitches taken out this morning—an’ I never howled!”