"Preposterous," I said.
I added a few apposite remarks, to which he responded as best he
could. But, medically speaking, I was two days senior to him, so
that when the Sister heard the uproar and bustled up it was he who
was forbidden to speak. She then proceeded to clinch the matter by
inserting a thermometer in his mouth. I defy any man to argue under
such a handicap.
I finished all I had to say and relapsed into an expectant silence.
The Sister returned after a time, read the instrument and retired
without a word. As she passed my bed I saw out of the corner of my
eye that Ellis was watching feverishly. An inspiration seized me. I
stopped her, and in a low voice asked if she had fed her rabbits.
Sister isn't allowed to keep rabbits, but she does. As I hoped, she
put a finger to her lips, nodded and walked away.
"Poor old man," I murmured vaguely to the ward in general. "A
hundred-and-seven and still rising! Poor old Ellis!"
Ellis gave a little moan and collapsed under the bedclothes.
An hour later Burnett went his round. Burnett isn't the doctor, at
least not the official one. I must tell you something about Burnett.
He is the grandfather of the ward. Though quite a young man he
has grown fat through long lying in bed. He entered hospital, I
understand, towards the end of 1914, suffering from influenza. Since
then he has had a nibble at every imaginable disease, not to mention a
number of imaginary ones as well. Regularly four times a day he would
waddle round the ward in his dingy old dressing-gown, discussing
symptoms with every cot. In exchange for your helping of pudding he
would take your temperature and let you know the answer, and for
a bunch of grapes he would tell you the probable course of your
complaint and the odds against complete recovery. No one seemed to
interfere with him. You see, Burnett was no longer a case; he was an
institution.
He spent a long time by Ellis's bedside. I suspect Ellis wasn't
feeling much like pudding at the moment. I couldn't hear very well
what was going on, but Ellis was chattering as only Ellis can, and the
comfortable Burnett was apparently soothing him with an occasional
"All right, old man. I'll see what I can do for you."
At length the grapes were all consumed and the huge form of Burnett
loomed above me.
"Why, Mr. L----," said the soothing voice, "I don't want to alarm you,
but really--"
"Really what?" I cried, starting up in bed at the gravity of his tone.
"Well, you know--your colour; I perhaps--"
He fumbled in the folds of his voluminous gown and produced a small
metal mirror. Then he seemed to change his mind and put it back again.
"I'd better not," he said softly to himself, and then louder to me,
"Have you got a wife--or perhaps a mother?"