(_The patients, about forty in number, straggle in from the
dining-room by twos and threes, chatting in low tones. The men
and women with few exceptions separate into two groups, the
women congregating in the left right angle of chairs, the men
sitting or standing in the right right angle. In appearance, most
of the patients are tanned, healthy, and cheerful-looking. The
great majority are under middle age. Their clothes are of the
cheap, ready-made variety. They are all distinctly of the
wage-earning class. They might well be a crowd of cosmopolitan
factory workers gathered together after a summer vacation. A
hollow-chestedness and a tendency to round shoulders may be
detected as a common characteristic. A general air of tension,
marked by frequent bursts of laughter in too high a key, seems to
pervade the throng._ Murray _and_ Eileen, _as if to avoid contact
with the others, come over to the right in front of the
dining-room door._)
MURRAY (_in a low voice_). Listen to them laugh. Did you ever
notice--perhaps it's my imagination--how forced they act on Saturday
mornings before they're weighed?
EILEEN (_dully_). No.
MURRAY. Can't you tell me that secret now? No one'll hear.
EILEEN (_vehemently_). No, no, how could I? Don't speak of it!
(_A sudden silence falls on all the groups at once. Their eyes,
by a common impulse, turn quickly towards the door to the
hall._)
A WOMAN (_nervously--as if this moment's silent pause oppressed her._)
Play something, Peters. They ain't coming yet.
(Peters, _a stupid-looking young fellow with a sly, twisted
smirk which gives him the appearance of perpetually winking his
eye, detaches himself from a group on the right. All join in with
urging exclamations: "Go on, Peters! Go to it! Pedal up, Pete!
Give us a rag! That's the boy, Peters!" etc._)
PETERS. Sure, if I got time.
(_He goes to the pianola and puts in a roll. The mingled
conversation and laughter bursts forth again as he sits on the
bench and starts pedalling._)
MURRAY (_disgustedly_). It's sure good to think I won't have to
listen to that old tin-pan being banged much longer!
(_The music interrupts him--a quick rag. The patients brighten,
hum, whistle, sway their heads or tap their feet in time to the
tune._ Doctor Stanton _and_ Doctor Simms _appear in the
doorway from the hall. All eyes are turned on them._)
STANTON (_raising his voice_). They all seem to be here, Doctor. We
might as well start.
(Mrs. Turner, _the matron, comes in behind them--a stout,
motherly, capable-looking woman with grey hair. She hears_
Stanton's _remark._)
MRS. TURNER. And take temperatures after, Doctor?
STANTON. Yes, Mrs. Turner. I think that's better to-day.
MRS. TURNER. All right, Doctor.
(Stanton _and the assistant go out._ Mrs. Turner _advances a step
or so into the room and looks from one group of patients to the
other, inclining her head and smiling benevolently. All force
smiles and nod in recognition of her greeting._ Peters, _at the
pianola, lets the music slow down, glancing questioningly at the
matron to see if she is going to order it stopped. Then,
encouraged by her smile, his feet pedal harder than ever._)
MURRAY. Look at old Mrs. Grundy's eyes pinned on us! She'll accuse us
of being too familiar again, the old wench!
EILEEN. Sssh. You're wrong. She's looking at me, not at us.
MURRAY. At you? Why?
EILEEN. I ran a temperature yesterday. It must have been over a hundred
last night.
MURRAY. (_with consoling scepticism_). You're always looking for
trouble, Eileen. How do you know you ran a temp? You didn't see the
stick, I suppose?
EILEEN. No--but--I could tell. I felt feverish and chilly. It must have
been way up.
MURRAY. Bosh! If it was you'd have been sent to bed.
EILEEN. That's why she's looking at me. (_Piteously._) Oh, I do hope I
won't be sent back to bed! I don't know what I'd do. If I could only
gain this morning. If my temp has only gone down! (_Hopelessly._) But I
feel---- I didn't sleep a wink--thinking----
MURRAY. (_roughly_). You'll persuade yourself you've got leprosy in a
second. Don't be silly! It's all imagination, I tell you. You'll gain.
Wait and see if you don't.
(Eileen _shakes her head. A metallic rumble and jangle comes
from the hallway. Everyone turns in that direction with nervous
expectancy._)
MRS. TURNER (_admonishingly_). Mr. Peters!
PETERS. Yes, ma'am.
(_He stops playing and rejoins the group of men on the right.
In the midst of a silence broken only by hushed murmurs of
conversation,_ Doctor Stanton _appears in the hall doorway.
He turns to help his assistant wheel in a Fairbanks scale on
castors. They place the scale against the wall immediately to the
rear of the doorway._ Doctor Simms _adjusts it to a perfect
balance._)
DOCTOR STANTON (_takes a pencil from his pocket and opens the record
book he has in his hand_). All ready, Doctor?
DOCTOR SIMMS. Just a second, sir.
(_A chorus of coughs comes from the impatient crowd, and
handkerchiefs are hurriedly produced to shield mouths._)
MURRAY (_with a nervous smile_). Well, we're all set. Here's hoping!
EILEEN. You'll gain, I'm sure you will. You look so well.
MURRAY. Oh--I--I wasn't thinking of myself, I'm a sure thing. I was
betting on you. I've simply got to gain to-day, when so much depends on
it.
EILEEN. Yes, I hope you---- (_She falters brokenly and turns away from
him._)
DOCTOR SIMMS (_straightening up_). All ready, Doctor?
STANTON (_nods and glances at his book--without raising his
voice--distinctly_). Mrs. Abner.
(_A middle-aged woman comes and gets on the scale._ Simms
_adjusts it to her weight of the previous week, which_ Stanton
_reads to him from the book in a low voice, and weighs her._)
MURRAY (_with a relieved sigh_). They're off. (_Noticing_ Eileen's
_downcast head and air of dejection._) Here! Buck up, Eileen! Old Lady
Grundy's watching you--and it's your turn in a second.
(Eileen _raises her head and forces a frightened smile._ Mrs.
Abner _gets down off the scale with a pleased grin. She has
evidently gained. She rejoins the group of women, chattering
volubly in low tones. Her exultant "gained half a pound" can be
heard. The other women smile their perfunctory congratulations,
their eyes absent-minded, intent on their own worries._ Stanton
_writes down the weight in the book._)