“I’m sure,” said Sister Margaret sedately, “that Twenty is a very brave boy. If it hadn’t been for his courage there might have been quite a serious fire.”
Twenty blushed.
“Twenty has qualities,” went on the tall Sister, “that if properly directed—I should bring it twice over the knee, nurse, I think—will make him a fine young fellow, and a credit to his country.” Sister Margaret had raised her voice in order that her words might be heard. The ward listened alertly; little Nineteen, whose eyelids were now very tired, moving his head in order to hear. “Wrongly directed,” she said, lowering her voice, “they will only make him dangerous.”
“I should rather like to grow up and—and be brave,” said little Nineteen from the next bed.
“So you shall,” declared Nurse Crowther, cheerily, “so you shall, Nineteen. If you don’t get the Victoria Cross some day, Nineteen, never believe me again.” Little Nineteen consoled, closed his eyes wearily. “As for you, Marquis,” went on Nurse Crowther, pinning the end of the roll with which Bobbie’s limb had been enveloped, “I believe that what Sister says is perfectly true. If you can only keep on the main line you’ll make a capital journey. Only don’t get branching off.”
“If I don’t get along in the world,” said Bobbie, with a touch of his old impudence, “it won’t he for the want of telling.”
“You ought to be grateful, my Lord Bishop,” said Nurse Crowther, adjusting the bed-clothes carefully, “that you’ve got so many friends.”
“Me!” echoed the boy. “Why, I ain’t got a friend in the world.”
“Twenty!” said Sister Margaret reprovingly. “And Mr. West is coming all the way down here next visiting day specially to see you.”
“To see me?”