“Say, shake.” The mammoth man smiled as he held out a giant fist. Sheila had the feeling she was shaking hands with some prehistoric animal. It was almost repellent, and she had to summon all her sympathy and control to be able to return the shake with any degree of cordiality.
“All right, ma’am. You can leave us now to thrash it out man to man. You’d better get back to managing your little white angels,” and he swept a dismissing hand toward Miss Maxwell and the door.
Oddly enough, there was nothing rude nor affronting in the man’s words. There was too much of underlying good nature to permit it. With the closing of the door behind the superintendent he turned to Sheila. “Now, boss, we might as well understand each other—it’ll save strikes or hurt feelings. Eh?”
Sheila nodded.
“All right. I’m dying, and I know it. May burst like a paper bag or go up like a penny balloon any minute. Now praying won’t keep me from bursting a second sooner, or send me up a foot higher, so cut it out.”
Again Sheila nodded.
“That isn’t all. Had two nurses who agreed, kept their word, but they hadn’t the nerve to keep the parson from praying, and when he was off duty they just sat—twiddled their thumbs and waited for me to quit. Couldn’t stand that—got on my nerves something fearful.”
“Wanted to murder them, didn’t you?” Sheila laughed. “Well, Mr. Brandle, suppose we begin with supper and the baseball news. After that we’ll hunt up a thriller—biggest thriller they’ve got in the book-store.”
“You’re boss,” was the answer, but a look of relief—almost of contentment—spread over the rubicund face.
As Sheila was leaving for the supper-tray she paused. “How would you like company for supper?”