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Page 10
As she stooped over the bed a pair of thin little arms flew out and
clasped themselves tightly about her neck; a head with a shock of red
curls buried itself in the folds of the gray uniform. This was
Bridget--daughter of the Irish sod, oldest of the ward, general
caretaker and best beloved; although it should be added in justice to
both Bridget and Margaret MacLean that the former had no consciousness
of it, and the latter took great care to hide it.
[Illustration: As she stooped over the bed a pair of thin little arms
flew out and clasped themselves tightly about her neck.]
It was Bridget who read to the others when no one else could; it was
Bridget who remembered some wonderful story to tell on those days when
Sandy's back was particularly bad or the Apostles grew over-despondent;
and it was Bridget who laughed and sang on the gray days when the sun
refused to be cheery. Undoubtedly it was because of all these things
that her cot was in the center of Ward C.
Concerning Bridget herself, hers was a case of arsenical poisoning,
slowly absorbed while winding daisy-stems for an East Broadway
manufacturer of cheap artificial flowers. She had done this for three
years--since she was five--thereby helping her mother to support
themselves and two younger children. She was ten now and the Senior
Surgeon had already reckoned her days.
In the shadow of Bridget's cot was Rosita's crib--Rosita being the
youngest, the most sensitive, and the most given to homesickness. This
last was undoubtedly due to the fact that she was the only child in the
incurable ward blessed in the matter of a home. Her parents were
honest-working Italians who adored her, but who were too ignorant and
indulgent to keep her alive. They came every Sunday, and sat out the
allotted time for visitors beside her crib, while the other children
watched in a silent, hungry-eyed fashion.
Margaret MacLean passed her with a kiss and went on to
Peter--Peter--seven years old--congenital hip disease--and all boy.
"Hello, you!" he shouted, squirming under the kiss that he would not
have missed for anything.
"Hello, you!" answered back the administering nurse, and then she
asked, solemnly, "How's Toby?"
"He's--he's fine. That soap the House Surgeon give me cured his fleas
all up."
Toby was even more mythical than Susan's aunt; she was based on certain
authentic facts, whereas Toby was solely the creation of a dog-adoring
little brain. But no one was ever inconsiderate enough to hint at his
airy fabrication; and Margaret MacLean always inquired after him every
morning with the same interest that she bestowed on the other occupants
of Ward C.
Last in the ward came Michael, a diminutive Russian exile with valvular
heart trouble and a most atrocious vocabulary. The one seemed as
incurable as the other. Margaret MacLean had wrestled with the
vocabulary on memorable occasions--to no avail; and although she had
long since discovered it was a matter of words and not meanings with
him, it troubled her none the less. And because Michael came the
nearest to being the black sheep of this sanitary fold she showed for
him always an unfailing gentleness.
"Good morning, dear," she said, running her fingers through the
perpendicular curls that bristled continuously.
"Goot mornun, tear," he mimicked, mischievously; and then he added,
with an irresistible smile, "Und Got-tam-you."
"Oh, Michael, don't you remember, the next time you were going to say
'God bless you'?"
"Awright--next time."
Margaret MacLean sighed unconsciously. Michael's "next time" was about
as reliable as the South American _ma�ana_; and he seemed as much an
alien now as the day he was brought into the ward. And then, because
she believed that kindness was the strongest weapon for victory in the
end, she did the thing Michael loved best.
Ward C was turned into a circus menagerie, and Margaret MacLean and her
assistant were turned into keepers. Together they set about the duties
for the day with great good-humor. Two seals, a wriggling
hippopotamus, a roaring polar bear, a sea-serpent of surprising
activities, two teeth-grinding alligators, a walrus, and a baby
elephant were bathed with considerable difficulty and excitement. It
was Sandy who insisted on being the elephant in spite of a heated
argument from the other animals that, having a hump, he ought to be a
camel. They forgave him later, however, when he squirted forth his
tooth-brush water and trumpeted triumphantly, thereby causing the
entire menagerie to squirm about and bellow in great glee.
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