“That, dear duke,” said the nurse winking, “entirely depends upon you. You have but to say the word.”
“If there’s one thing I can’t stand more’n another,” said the boy, settling himself down cautiously, “it is gels trying to be comic.”
The young doctor with three or four men still younger, and all of them endeavouring to look an incalculable age, paid their visit to Margaret Ward in due course, and Bobbie felt indignant because whereas they stayed at the end of his bed but a couple of minutes writing some casual marks on the blue form pinned on the board above his head, at the next bed they ordered a screen to be placed, and behind this they remained in consultation over the white-faced little Nineteen for quite a long time. When they had gone, Bobbie salved his jealousy by telling Nineteen at once that Nineteen need not think himself everybody, giving a long list of imaginary complaints that he (Bobbie) had in the past suffered from, ranging in character from a wart on the knuckles to complete paralysis of the right side. This seemed to restrain any idea that Nineteen might have had of exhibiting conceit, and that little chap contented himself by offering to bet two to one in halfpennies that he would he the next in the Margaret Ward to go. Bobbie forced the odds to three to one, and then closed with the wager.
“I shan’t be sorry,” said white-faced Nineteen, “’pon me word I shan’t. It can’t be much worse than this.”
“You be careful how you talk,” advised Bobbie. “A man that’s getting near to kicking the bucket can’t be too cautious of what he says.”
“Likely as not,” said Nineteen, “it’ll he a jolly sight better than this.”
“How can you tell?”
“Anyway,” said Nineteen, “it’ll he a rare old lark to watch and see what ’appens. I ’eard a man arguin’ once in Victoria Park that those what put up with a lot in this world, got it all their own way in the next, and vicer verser.”
“How did he get to know?”
“Of course,” admitted Nineteen, “it’s all speculation.” Little Nineteen yawned. “I feel bit tired.”