"He doesn't care whether he gets well or not," she said dispiritedly. "All he seems to think about is to die and to leave everything he owns so his relatives won't get it. It's horrible!"
The Staff Man, who had finished up a hard day with a hospital supper of steak and fried potatoes, sat down on the doorstep and fished out a digestive tablet from his surgical bag.
"It's pretty sad, little girl," he said, over the pill. He had known the Nurse for some time, having, in fact, brought her—according to report at the time—in a predecessor of the very bag at his feet, and he had the fatherly manner that belongs by right to the man who has first thumped one between the shoulder-blades to make one breathe, and who had remarked on this occasion to some one beyond the door: "A girl, and fat as butter!"
The Nurse tiptoed in and found Billy Grant apparently asleep. Actually he had only closed his eyes, hoping to lure one of the monkeys within clutching distance. So the Nurse came out again, with the symptom record.
"Delirious, with two r's," said the Staff Doctor, glancing over his spectacles. "He must have been pretty bad."
"Not wild; he—he wanted me to marry him!"
She smiled, showing a most alluring dimple in one cheek.
"I see! Well, that's not necessarily delirium. H'm—pulse, respiration—look at that temperature! Yes, it's pretty sad—away from home, too, poor lad!"
"You—— Isn't there any hope, doctor?"
"None at all—at least, I've never had 'em get well."