The little boy had been ill. Even now, a bright red flannel compress was wound about his tender throat, and he was propped up in a much-too-big Morris chair, with a plaid rug across his knees. There is nothing to being sick at school—nothing at all. The little boy in No. 60 could have told you that, because he had had two months of it, and only now, at Christmas time, had he begun to get well.
Of course, on the other hand, the infirmary is good sport, with Mrs. Darling fussing over you and feeding you hot broths from a little blue china bowl. But even with Mrs. Darling tucking you in here and patting you down there, and even with the boys stumbling in for a few minutes to chatter about the junior team and the senior squad, there is something very “wantable” that you miss most fearfully much. Something that begins with a capital “M.” The little boy in No. 60 never let himself get farther than the capital “M,” because his mother was a whole ocean away, and it wasn’t any good wishing for her anyway, you see, it cost so much to come.
The little boy in No. 60 sat by the window a long time, until the shadows began to get long and black and reaching, and a crisp chilliness was in the air. He wound the plaid rug tightly about him, until only his sharp little chin peeked out, and he was glad when he heard the door click and Mrs. Darling rustled in.
“And was the little plum-pudding left all by himself?” she asked, switching on the lights briskly. “Such a busy day as it’s been—what with putting the place to rights after the young gentlemen, and getting the perfessers off for the holiday, why we forgot all and everything about you. You’re not cold, are you?”
“Not very,” said the little boy, quietly; “not very, at all.”
“Well, I’m having Nora build us a fire in the study, and I’ll carry you down across my shoulder, like the little pack of bones that you are.”
“Perhaps I could walk, if you—”
“Walk! And do you think I couldn’t lift you, after caring for you two whole months? Mercy! but the boy’s getting well!”
Even as she spoke, she was bundling the plaid about him and lifting him gently. There is something rather revolting in having a woman carry you, just like a tiny baby, and the little boy’s mouth stiffened, and he stuck out his chin.
“Just as you like,” he said. “Only do be sure nobody sees you doing it.”