Alas! for us all when one morning Do’-no-who began to show signs of relapse. He had had a bad night and was unmistakably low in his mind. Instead of the usual radiant smile and the variable welcome ‘I’m grand!’ or ‘Sure, I’ll be rightly sune,’ it was a kind of beaten look that greeted us. His glad expression had suddenly changed to one of unutterable sadness. He gravely shook his head without a word, and then sank back on the pillow.
Every effort was still being put forth to relieve him, but oxygen, ‘dry-cupping,’ and various other remedies seemed this time to have lost their power. Only, strange to say, the doctor found his pulse had lost little of its strength. He told him so.
‘Mebbe, yer honour, but I’m greatly fataagued,’ murmured Do’-no-who, as he wearily closed his eyes.
The truth was he had given himself up. Once a man does that it is little use to argue with him. Poor old Do’-no-who’s Gethsemane took the form of dire disappointment. ‘Sure, I’ll miss mi rewa-r-rd,’ he faintly whispered.
Spite of all our attempts to keep bright, an atmosphere of depression was gradually creeping over the ward. The sudden change in Bed 14 was responsible for it all. Do’-no-who lay there perfectly helpless, his painful breathing sounding more like the regular sawing of a piece of wood than anything else.
In the afternoon there was little change, except that his pulse at last showed signs of weakening, the light had gone out of his eyes, and he was unable to swallow anything.
By this time some of the patients were beginning to get along well: so much easier was their breathing they were able to sleep in comparative comfort. Others, however, were wakeful. They only wished to lie quiet. Some indeed tried to look at picture papers, but you could tell by the quick anxious glances they gave towards Bed 14 from time to time that their thoughts were centred entirely on one person.
As the hours progressed we found that Do’-no-who’s strength was gradually waning. His pulse was faint and fluttering, he had fallen into a heavy drowsy state, and his breathing came in short light puffs. Yet all the time, strange to say, he would insist on keeping that great strong arm of his right up at the back of his head which lay so still on the pillow. He remained like that for hours, whilst the breathing gradually slowed, faltered and went on again, till it was almost inaudible and the fluttering pulse could scarcely be felt. Then—quite suddenly—as he slept the tired head fell over and the big hand relaxed. He had stepped over the border without a struggle. We placed his hand gently beside him, and took the rosary from the other one and hung it round his neck.
‘The strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained