“Blankety-blank-blank-blank!” he announced in due time—“blankety-blank-blank-blank-blank! Maybe when you two blankety-blank imbeciles have got through your blankety-blank cackling, you’ll have the blankety-blank decency to save my—my blankety-blank-blank-blank-blank-blank life!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” persisted the poor White Linen Nurse, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Hi! hi! hi!” snickered the poor Little Girl through her hiccoughs.
Feeling hopelessly imprisoned under the monstrous car, the Senior Surgeon closed his eyes for death. No man of his weight, he felt sure, could reasonably expect to survive many minutes longer the apoplectic, blood-red rage that pounded in his ear-drums. Through his tight-closed eyelids very, very slowly a red glow seemed to permeate. He thought it was the fires of hell. Opening his eyes to meet his fate like a man, he found himself staring impudently close, instead, into the White Linen Nurse’s furiously flushed face, which lay cuddled on one plump cheek, staring impudently close at him.
“Why—why—get out!” gasped the Senior Surgeon.
Very modestly the White Linen Nurse’s face retreated a little further into its blushes.
“Yes, I know,” she protested; “but I’m all through giggling now. I’m sorry—I’m—”
In sheer apprehensiveness the Senior Surgeon’s features crinkled wincingly from brow to chin as though struggling vainly to retreat from the appalling proximity of the girl’s face.
“Your—eyelashes—are too long,” he complained querulously.
“Eh?” jerked the White Linen Nurse’s face. “Is it your brain that’s hurt? Oh, sir, do you think it’s your brain that’s hurt?”