And the brusque but not unkindly little quack trotted away, leaving Reginald in the dark without a gleam of hope to comfort him.
“Gov’nor,” said the weak little voice from the bed, “that there doctor says I are a-goin’ to die, don’t he?”
“He says you’re very ill, old boy, but let’s hope you’ll soon be better.”
“Me—no fear. On’y I wish it would come soon. I’m afeared of gettin’ frightened.”
And the voice trembled away into a little sob.
They lay there side by side that long restless night. The other lodgers, rough degraded men and women, crowded into the room, but no one heeded the little bed in the dark corner, where the big boy lay with his arm round the little uneasy sufferer. There was little sleep either for patient or nurse. Every few minutes the boy begged for water, which Reginald held to his lips, and when after a time the thirst ceased and only the pain remained, nothing soothed and tranquillised him so much as the repetition time after time of his favourite stories from the wonderful book, which, happily, Reginald now knew almost by heart.
So the night passed. Before daylight the lodgers one by one rose and left the place, and when about half-past seven light struggled once more in between the rafters these two were alone.
The boy seemed a little revived, and sipped some milk which Reginald had darted out to procure.
But the pain and the fever returned twofold as the day wore on, and even to Reginald’s unpractised eye it was evident the boy’s release was not far distant.
“Gov’nor,” said the boy once, with his mind apparently wandering back over old days, “what’s the meaning of ‘Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen,’ what comes at the end of that there prayer you taught me at the office—is He the same one that’s in the Pilgrim book?”