“Remove the patients—Good gracious!” ejaculated the doctor. “Why they’ve only just been removed once! Can’t you let them settle down a little?”
“We want to take them to Ireland,” said Norah, eagerly. “Can we, doctor?”
“H’m,” said the doctor, reflectively. “There might be worse plans. We’ll see. Ireland: that’s the place where the motto is, ‘When you see a head, hit it!’ isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s universal,” said Mr. Linton mildly. “It’s really much more peaceful than English legends would lead you to believe.”
“Between you and me, what the average Englishmen knows of Ireland might, I believe, he put into one’s eye without inconvenience,” affirmed the doctor. “I’m a Scot, and I don’t mind admitting I don’t know anything. But no Englishman tells an Irish story without making his speakers say ‘Bedad!’ and ‘Begorra!’ in turn: and I’ve known a heap of Irishmen, and their conversation was singularly free from those remarks. I have an inward conviction that the English-made Irishman doesn’t exist; only I never have time to verify any of my inward convictions. And perhaps that’s as well, because then they never lose weight! Have I drunk all the tea, Miss Norah?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Norah, tilting the teapot regretfully and without success. “Do let me get you some more. I know quite well where they make it.”
“Go to!” said the doctor, rising. “Don’t tempt an honest man from the path of duty. I’m off—and I give you three minutes. Then the patients are to compose themselves to slumber.”
“Ireland?” said the doctor, pausing in the doorway. “Oh, there’s lots of time to think about that distressful country.” He relented a little, looking at the eager faces. “Very possibly. We’ll re-open the discussion this day week. Three minutes, mind. Good-bye.” His quick steps died away along the corridor.
Half an hour later Wally wriggled on his pillow.
“D’you know something? Your people were here quite a while. And they never said one word about gas or war or any silly rot like that!”
“No,” said Jim, drowsily. “Bricks, weren’t they? Go to sleep.”
“Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home.” R. L. STEVENSON.
HOLYHEAD pier was in the state of wild turmoil that seethes between the arrival of the mail and its transhipping to the Dublin boat. Passengers ran hither and thither, distractedly seeking luggage, while stolid English porters lent a deaf ear to their complainings or assured them absent-mindedly that everything would be all right on the other side; an assurance always given light-heartedly by the porter who is comfortably certain of the fact that, whatever happens on the other side, he will not be there. First and third class passengers mingled inextricably in the luggage-hunt, with equal lack of success, and divided into two streams when the whistle blew an impatient summons, seeking their respective gangways under the guiding shouts of officials on the upper deck. Through the crowd ploughed the mail trollies, regarding first and third class travellers alike as mere obstructors of His Majesty’s business, and asserting their right-of-way by sheer weight and impetus. Overhead, a grey sky hung darkly, and was reflected in a grey, white-flecked sea.