And they had both laughed.
After Miss Kexter had gone Mrs. Witherspoon looked over her spectacles and announced:
“I hearn what she said, dearie. Guess you feel like the clown who was sick and the doc said, ‘See you in the morning,’ and the clown seys, ‘Sure you will, doc, but will I see you?’ Brave, them circus people. An’ loyal, my soul! They are paying for you, ain’t they, Woodsie?”
She turned to the shrivelled woman with the bad heart. The woman’s face outshone the sunset.
“Payin’ my pension like I done for many a trouper before me. Circus folks never let each other down. Never!”
“Who did you travel with?” Rose, who had been “letting her supper down,” a new and delightful experience, turned and asked.
“I done the back somersault in Barnum and Bailey’s up to 1906. Then I fell ... I ain’t ever known how, but the ringmaster seys the horse slipped ... in Minneapolis that August ... and I ain’t ever been right since.”
“You must have had a wonderful sense of balance and courage.” Rose’s voice carried awe.
“If you ain’t got guts you’d better stay outa circuses, and nursing, too, I guess.” The woman’s voice had a note of admiration.
The two student nurses who had the seven to nine duty began preparing the ward for the night. One brought around the bed-pans and tooth-mugs. Mrs. Witherspoon, and the woman who had been a bareback rider, extracted their teeth and placed them in their mugs.