“Yes, an’ I’ll be wantin’ to hear the old cracked voice o’ Biddy Donoghue callin’ cockles at the Antrim fair. Faith, she’s worth thravelin’ far to be hearin’. An’ think o’ gettin’ your tooth on a live cockle!” Johnnie moistened his lips in anticipation as he broke forth in a falsetto:
“Cockles—good cockles—here’s some for your dad,
An’ some for your lassie—an’ more for your lad.”
Amid the appreciative chuckle of the listeners, the door of Ward 7-A opened and the chief stood on the threshold. He smiled as a man may when he has a hurting thing to do and grudges the doing of it. He saluted the remnants of Company—of the Royal Irish:
“Orders, lads. You’ll be leaving to-morrow for—Blighty.”
There was nothing but silence, a silence of agony and apprehension, until Patsy whispered, “Leavin’ together, sir?”
“I—hope so.”
“Thravelin’—the same?” It was Timothy Brennan this time.
“I don’t know.”
“Will we be afther makin’ the same hospital yondther—do ye think?” It took all Larry’s fighting soul to keep his voice steady.
“I—It isn’t likely.”