When she passed near him again, he summoned her. She came to his bedside.
“What do you call this particular region of fairyland?”
She stared at him for a moment, adjusting things in her mind; for his name and style were 35792 Private Trevor, J. M., but his voice and phrase were those of her own social class. Then she smiled, and told him. The corner of fairyland was a private auxiliary hospital in a Lancashire seaside town.
“Lancashire,” said Doggie, knitting his brow in a puzzled way, “but why have they sent me to Lancashire? I belong to a West Country regiment, and all my friends are in the South.”
“What’s he grousing about, Sister?” suddenly asked the occupant of the next bed. “He’s the sort of chap that doesn’t know when he’s in luck and when he isn’t. I’m in the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, I am, and when I was hit before, they sent me to a military hospital in Inverness. That’d teach you, my lad. This for me every time. You ought to have something to grouse at.”
“I’m not grousing, you idiot!” said Doggie.
“’Ere—who’s he calling an idjit?” cried the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantryman, raising himself on his elbow.
The nurse intervened; explained that no one could be said to grumble at a hospital when he called it fairyland. Trevor’s question was that of one in search of information. He did not realize that in assigning men to the various hospitals in the United Kingdom, the authorities could not possibly take into account an individual man’s local association.
“Oh well, if it’s only his blooming ignorance——”
“That’s just it, mate,” smiled Doggie, “my blooming ignorance.”