The wail broke out afresh: “How can I tell if I can stand her? They all look alike—all of ’em. You’re the fourth, ain’t you?” He turned to the nurse at his bedside for corroboration.
“Then I’m the fifth,” announced Sheila, “and there’s luck in odd numbers.”
“Five’s my number.” The mammoth man looked a fraction less distracted as he stated this important fact. “Born fifth day of the fifth month, struck it rich when I was twenty-five, married in ’seventy-five, formed the American Coal Trust December fifth, eighteen ninety-five. How’s that for a number?”
“And I’m twenty-five, and this is June fifth.” Sheila smiled.
“Say, honest?” A glimmer of cheerfulness filtered through. The man beckoned the superintendent of nurses closer and whispered in a perfectly audible voice: “Can’t you take it away now? I’d like to ask the other some questions before you leave her for keeps.”
Miss Maxwell nodded a dismissal to the nurse who had been, and called Sheila to the bedside. “Look her over well, Mr. Brandle. Miss O’Leary isn’t a bit sensitive.”
“O’Leary? That’s not a bad name. Had a shaft boss up at my first anthracite-mine by that name—got on with him first-class. Say”—this direct to Sheila—“can you pray?”
“Not unless I have to.”
“Not a bad answer. Now what—er—form of—literatoore do you prefer?”
“Things with pep—punch—go!”