“Eh?” exclaimed the Little Crippled Girl.
“What? What, sir?” stammered the White Linen Nurse.
Quite prosily the Senior Surgeon began to butter a piece of toast; but the little twinkle about his eyes belied in some way the utter prosiness of the act.
“For a little trip,” he confided amiably, “a little holiday.”
A trifle excitedly the White Linen Nurse laid down her knife and fork and stared at him as blue-eyed and wondering as a child.
“A holiday?” she gasped. “To a—beach, you mean? Would there be a—a roller-coaster? I’ve never seen a roller-coaster.”
“Eh?” laughed the Senior Surgeon.
“Oh, I’m going, too! I’m going, too!” piped the Little Crippled Girl.
Most jerkily the Senior Surgeon pushed back his chair from the table, and swallowed half a cup of coffee at one single gulp.
“Going three, you mean?” he glowered at his little daughter. “Going three?” His comment that ensued was distinctly rough as far as diction was concerned, but the facial expression of ineffable peace that accompanied it would have made almost any phrase sound like a benediction. “Not by a damned sight!” beamed the Senior Surgeon. “This little trip is just for Peach and me.”