"Hullo, you in the wars again? What's the matter now, hey?"
"Bad thumb, sir," said Gardiner, gingerly unrolling it. Yes, his hand had broken out again. "I shall have to lance this," snapped Scott, and did so, with inward ruth. After twenty years of practice, he still hated inflicting pain. "What have you been doing to yourself? Why didn't you come to me before?"
"Well, sir, I never thought twice about it till this morning. I knocked it on a nail; I thought it would get all right."
"Get all right? Get all wrong! Your blood must be in a shocking state. Ever have anything of this sort before you came here?"
"N-no, I don't know that I have. I expect perhaps it's the confinement; I'm not used to it, you know."
"H'm! well, your time's up next month, isn't it? and then you'll be free to get some war work, which is what you're fidgeting after, aren't you? Take care of that hand, and don't go jabbing nails into it, unless you want to lose it altogether. Two thousand men of the Naval Division have crossed the Dutch frontier and will have to be interned. Next."
B14, with the faint suggestion of a smile, went the way of A29, and Scott looked after him with a sigh and the faint suggestion of a frown. Ever since his night in the padded cell it had been the same; Gardiner was polite, and even friendly, but he kept his distance. With no one is a reserved man more reserved than with the person before whom he has once been helplessly open. "I've lost him for good," Scott said to himself; and another sigh came, for he had not many friends. But he was right, it was irrevocable; Gardiner had definitively snapped the thread.
Sunday is a day of rest. Prisoners attend chapel twice, they have two separate hours of exercise, morning and afternoon; at half-past four they go to their cells for supper, and are then locked up for the night. In winter, all lights are put out. In summer, many read in bed. But on the brightest of June mornings Gardiner's cell was barely light enough for that; and by five o'clock in October it was as black as a cave. He had finished his supper, and was screwing up his patience to endure the interminable night, when his door opened to admit that very welcome sight, a visitor—Mr. Roche the chaplain.
"I meant to get round before, but I haven't had a moment; I've been up to my eyes in business the whole day. But I thought I might just catch you before bed-time. How are you, eh?"