"Well, don't ye ever say it ag'in—do ye hear? Miss Peggie's American, and so's the House Surgeon, an' it's the next best thing to bein' Irish—which every one can't be, the Lord knows. Now them trusters is heathen, an' they don't know nothin' more'n heathen, an' we ought to be easy on 'em for bein' so ignorant."
"They ken us 'll nae mair be gettin' weel," said Sandy, mournfully.
"Aw, ye're talkin' foolish entirely. What do ye think that C on the door means?"
A silence, significant of much brain-racking, followed.
"C stands for children," announced Susan, triumphantly.
"Aye, it does that, but there be's somethin' more."
"Crutches," suggested Pancho, tentatively.
"Aw, go on wid ye," laughed Bridget. "Ye're 'way off." She paused a moment impressively. "C means 'cured.' 'Childher Cured,' that's what! Now all we've got to do is to forget trusters an' humps an' pains an' them disagreeable things, an' think o' somethin' pleasant."
"Ain't nothin' pleasant ter think of in er horspital," wailed John, the present disheartenment clouding over all past happiness.
"Ain't, neither," agreed James.