Allison was lounging at a table drinking tea with O’Malley when two bobbies and a disheveled man wrapped in a wool blanket marched into the mess. They both leaped to their feet and rushed across the room.
“Stan, old chap!” Allison shouted.
“By the scalp of St. Patrick!” O’Malley boomed. “An’ I thought you would drown sure before the boat got to you.”
The bobbies nodded their heads and grinned broadly. They lifted their sticks and moved out, well satisfied with their work. Stan called after them:
“If you meet an ambulance wandering about tell the driver to go back to the hospital and give my regards to the head nurse.” He sank into a chair and grinned up at his friends. “How about some clothes?”
“Coming right up. You can borrow my dress uniform,” Allison said. “O’Malley insisted we hold off replacements for another day. The hospital said you’d be laid up for weeks, but O’Malley had a hunch you wouldn’t let them keep you.”
Stan told what had happened. When he had finished O’Malley beat a bony fist on the table.
“Faith, an’ I think the gas business is a trick of that rotter, Garret. What he’s after needin’ is a good taste of me fist,” he bellowed.
“We have no proof. If one of you fellows beat him up we’d all be grounded, you know,” Allison cut in.
“If Garret was on the crew that handled the fueling that’s enough for me,” Stan said grimly.