Nothing of the sort developing, McWhirter went into a drug-store, and managed to pull through the summer with unimpaired cheerfulness, confiding to me that he secured his luncheons free at the soda counter. He came frequently to see me, bringing always a pocketful of chewing gum, which he assured me was excellent to allay the gnawings of hunger, and later, as my condition warranted it, small bags of gum-drops and other pharmacy confections.
McWhirter it was who got me my berth on the Ella. It must have been about the 20th of July, for the Ella sailed on the 28th. I was strong enough to leave the hospital, but not yet physically able for any prolonged exertion. McWhirter, who was short and stout, had been alternately flirting with the nurse, as she moved in and out preparing my room for the night, and sizing me up through narrowed eyes.
“No,” he said, evidently following a private line of thought; “you don’t belong behind a counter, Leslie. I’m darned if I think you belong in the medical profession, either. The British army’d suit you.”
“The—what?”
“You know—Kipling idea—riding horseback, head of a column—undress uniform—colonel’s wife making eyes at you—leading last hopes and all that.”
“The British army with Kipling trimmings being out of the question, the original issue is still before us. I’ll have to work, Mac, and work like the devil, if I’m to feed myself.”
There being no answer to this, McWhirter contented himself with eyeing me.
“I’m thinking,” I said, “of going to Europe. The sea is calling me, Mac.”
“So was the grave a month ago, but it didn’t get you. Don’t be an ass, boy. How are you going to sea?”
“Before the mast.” This apparently conveying no meaning to McWhirter, I supplemented—“as a common sailor.”