“Well, perhaps you’d better,” said Jim, with relief. He handed over the offending watch. “I suppose it’s because mine’s a different make,” he said, drawing out his own. “See—mine winds so-fashion. I wouldn’t mind betting you can’t get a tick out of that one of yours.”
“Mine?” said an infinitesimal voice.
“Yes—it’s yours, of course. A pity you can’t make it go. Oh, by Jove, you have!” He bent over the cot, his brown face alight with interest. “However did you do it?”
Five minutes later, when the Billabong party were ready to leave the ward, Jim and his patient were deep in a discussion of watches. Once a weak little laugh rang out from the cot, and the nurse looked round quickly.
“That’s the first time that poor little chap has laughed,” she said.
Jim stood up, at last, and held out his hand.
“They’re waiting for me,” he said. “Well, so long, old chap. Buck up!”
Tommy shook the big hand solemnly.
“So long,” he said. He made a great effort to speak. “Is—is you’ leg quite well?”
“Quite well, old man. So will yours be if you keep your pecker up. Promise!”