"Just what do you want me to do?" she asked. Now that it was down
to brass tacks and no talk about home and mother, she was more
comfortable.
"If you could just come over to the hospital while her people are
there and--and say she'd lived with you all the time----"
"That's the truth all right!"
"And--that she worked for you, sewing--she sews very well, she
says. And--oh, you'll know what to say; that she's been--all right,
you know; anything to make them comfortable and happy."
Now the stout woman was softening--not that she was really hard, but
she had developed a sort of artificial veneer of hardness, and good
impulses had a hard time crawling through.
"I guess I could do that much," she conceded. "She nursed me when I
was down and out with the grippe and that worthless nigger was drunk
in the kitchen. But you folks over there have got a parrot that
belongs to me. What about that?"
The Probationer knew about the parrot. The Dummy had slipped it
into the ward more than once and its profanity had delighted the
patients. The Avenue Girl had been glad to see it too; and as it sat
on the bedside table and shrieked defiance and oaths the Dummy had
smiled benignly. John and the dove--the girl and the parrot!
"I am sorry about the parrot. I--perhaps I could buy him from you."
She got out her shabby little purse, in which she carried her
munificent monthly allowance of eight dollars and a little money she
had brought from home.
"Twenty dollars takes him. That's what she owed me."
The Probationer had seventeen dollars and eleven cents. She spread
it out in her lap and counted it twice.
"I'm afraid that's all," she said. She had hoped the second count
would show up better. "I could bring the rest next month."
The Probationer folded the money together and held it out. The stout
woman took it eagerly.
"He's yours," she said largely. "Don't bother about the balance.
When do you want me?"
"I'll send you word," said the Probationer, and got up. She was
almost dizzy with excitement and the feeling of having no money at
all in the world and a parrot she did not want. She got out into the
air somehow and back to the hospital. She took a bath immediately
and put on everything fresh, and felt much better--but very
poor. Before she went on duty she said a little prayer about
thermometers--that she should not break hers until she had money for
a new one.
* * * * *
Father Feeny came and lined up six budding priests outside the door
of the ward. He was a fine specimen of manhood and he had asked no
questions at all. The Senior thought she had better tell him
something, but he put up a white hand.
"What does it matter, sister?" he said cheerfully. "Yesterday is
gone and to-day is a new day. Also there is to-morrow"--his Irish
eyes twinkled--"and a fine day it will be by the sunset."
Then he turned to his small army.
"Boys," he said, "it's a poor leader who is afraid to take chances
with his men. I'm going first"--he said fir-rst. "It's a small
thing, as I've told you--a bit of skin and it's over. Go in smiling
and come out smiling! Are you ready, sir?" This to the _interne_.
That was a great day in the ward. The inmates watched Father Feeny
and the _interne_ go behind the screens, both smiling, and they
watched the father come out very soon after, still smiling but a
little bleached. And they watched the line patiently waiting outside
the door, shortening one by one. After a time the smiles were rather
forced, as if waiting was telling on them; but there was no
deserter--only one six-foot youth, walking with a swagger to
contribute his little half inch or so of cuticle, added a sensation
to the general excitement by fainting halfway up the ward; and he
remained in blissful unconsciousness until it was all over.
Though the _interne_ had said there was no way back, the first step
had really been taken; and he was greatly pleased with himself and
with everybody because it had been his idea. The Probationer tried
to find a chance to thank him; and, failing that, she sent a
grateful little note to his room:
Is Mimi the Austrian to have a baked apple?
[Signed] WARD A.
P.S.--It went through wonderfully! She is so cheerful
since it is over. How can I ever thank you?
The reply came back very quickly:
Baked apple, without milk, for Mimi. WARD A.
[Signed] D.L.S.
P.S.--Can you come up on the roof for a little air?
She hesitated over that for some time. A really honest-to-goodness
nurse may break a rule now and then and nothing happen; but
a probationer is only on trial and has to be exceedingly
careful--though any one might go to the roof and watch the sunset.
She decided not to go. Then she pulled her soft hair down over her
forehead, where it was most becoming, and fastened it with tiny
hairpins, and went up after all--not because she intended to, but
because as she came out of her room the elevator was going up--not
down. She was on the roof almost before she knew it.
The _interne_ was there in fresh white ducks, smoking. At first they
talked of skin grafting and the powder that had not done what was
expected of it. After a time, when the autumn twilight had fallen on
them like a benediction, she took her courage in her hands and told
of her visit to the house on the Avenue, and about the parrot and
the plot.
The _interne_ stood very still. He was young and intolerant. Some
day he would mellow and accept life as it is--not as he would have
it. When she had finished he seemed to have drawn himself into a
shell, turtle fashion, and huddled himself together. The shell was
pride and old prejudice and the intolerance of youth. "She had to
have an alibi!" said the Probationer.
"Oh, of course," very stiffly.
"I cannot see why you disapprove. Something had to be done."
"I cannot see that you had to do it; but it's your own affair, of
course. Only----"
"Please go on."
"Well, one cannot touch dirt without being soiled."
"I think you will be sorry you said that," said the Probationer
stiffly. And she went down the staircase, leaving him alone. He was
sorry, of course; but he would not say so even to himself. He
thought of the Probationer, with her eager eyes and shining hair and
her warm little heart, ringing the bell of the Avenue house and
making her plea--and his blood ran hot in him. It was just then
that the parrot spoke on the other side of the chimney.
"Gimme a bottle of beer!" it said. "Nice cold beer! Cold beer!"
The _interne_ walked furiously toward the sound. Must this girl of
the streets and her wretched associates follow him everywhere? She
had ruined his life already. He felt that it was ruined. Probably
the Probationer would never speak to him again.
The Dummy was sitting on a bench, with the parrot on his knee
looking rather queer from being smuggled about under a coat and fed
the curious things that the Dummy thought a bird should eat. It had
a piece of apple pie in its claw now.
"Cold beer!" said the parrot, and eyed the _interne_ crookedly.
The Dummy had not heard him, of course. He sat looking over the
parapet toward the river, with one knotted hand smoothing the bird's
ruffled plumage and such a look of wretchedness in his eyes that it
hurt to see it. God's fools, who cannot reason, can feel. Some
instinct of despair had seized him for its own--some conception,
perhaps, of what life would never mean to him. Before it, the
_interne's_ wrath gave way to impotency.
"Cold beer!" said the parrot wickedly.