Here's newspapers—pictures in 'em, too! I should make a circulatin' library of 'em; they'll be a real treat. Pickles? Well, I guess I should keep them on the winder here as a kind of a relish dinnertimes or to pass along to them as longs for 'em. Cologne? That's a dreadful handsome bottle, ain't it? That, now, would be fust-rate to give away to somebody as was very fond of it—a kind of delicate attention, you know—if you happen to meet such a person anywheres."
Ben nodded towards Miss Hale, who was absorbed in folding pocket-handkerchiefs. Sam winked expressively and patted the bottle as if congratulating himself that it was handsome, and that he did know what to do with it. The pantomime was not elegant, but as much real affection and respect went into it as if he had made a set speech and presented the gift upon his knees.
"The letters and photographs I should probably keep under my pillow for a spell; the jelly I'd give to Miss Hale to use for the sick ones; the cake stuff and that pot of jam I'd stand treat with for tea, since dinner wasn't all we could have wished. The apples I'd keep to eat and fling at Joe when he was too bashful to ask for one, and the tobacco I would not go lavishin' on folks that have no business to be enjoyin' luxuries when many a poor fellow is dyin' of want down to Charlestown. There, sir! That's what I'd do if anyone was so clever as to send me a jolly box like this."
Sam was enjoying the full glow of his shower bath by this time. As Ben designated the various articles, he set them apart. And when the inventory ended, he marched away with the first installment: two of the biggest, rosiest apples for Joe and all the pictorial papers. Pickles are not usually regarded as tokens of regard, but as Sam dealt them out one at a time—for he would let nobody help him, and his single hand being the left, was as awkward as it was willing—the boys' faces brightened. A friendly word accompanied each pickle, which made the sour gherkins as welcome as sweetmeats.
With every trip, the donor's spirits rose. Ben circulated freely between times, and, thanks to him, not an allusion to the past marred the satisfaction of the present. Jam, soda biscuits, and cake were such welcome additions to the usual bill of fare that when supper was over, a vote of thanks was passed, and speeches were made. Being true Americans, the ruling passion found vent in the usual "Fellow citizens!" and allusions to the "Star-spangled Banner." After which, Sam subsided, feeling himself a public benefactor and a man of mark.
A perfectly easy, pleasant day throughout would be almost an impossibility in any hospital, and this one was no exception to the general rule. So, at the usual time, Dr. Bangs went his rounds leaving the customary amount of discomfort, discontent, and dismay behind him. A skillful surgeon and an excellent man was Dr. Bangs, but not a sanguine or conciliatory individual. Many cares and crosses caused him to regard the world as one large hospital and his fellow beings all more or less dangerously wounded patients in it. He saw life through the bluest of blue spectacles and seemed to think that the sooner people quitted it, the happier for them. He did his duty by the men, but if they recovered, he looked half disappointed and congratulated them with cheerful prophecies that there would come a time when they would wish they hadn't. If one died, he seemed relieved and surveyed him with pensive satisfaction, saying heartily:
"He's comfortable, now, poor soul, and well out of this miserable world. Thank God!"
But for Ben's presence, the sanitary influences of the doctor's ward would have been small, and Dante's doleful line might have been written on the threshold of the door:
WHO ENTERS HERE LEAVES HOPE BEHIND.
Ben and the doctor perfectly understood and liked each other, but never agreed and always skirmished over the boys as if manful cheerfulness and medical despair were fighting for the soul and body of each one.
"Well," began the doctor, looking at Sam's arm, or rather at all that was left of that member after two amputations, "we shall be ready for another turn at this in a day or two if it don't mend faster. Tetanus sometimes follows such cases, but that is soon over; and I should not object to a case of it by way of variety." Sam's hopeful face fell, and he set his teeth as if the fatal symptoms were already felt.
"If one kind of lockjaw was not fatal, it wouldn't be a bad thing for some folks I could mention," observed Ben, covering the well-healed stump as carefully as if it were a sleeping baby—adding, as the doctor walked away, "There's a sanguinary old sawbones for you! Why, bless your buttons, Sam, you are doing splendid, and he goes on that way because there's no chance of his having another cut at you! Now he's bothering Turner, jest as we've blowed a spark of spirit into him. If ever there was a born extinguisher, it's Bangs!"
Ben rushed to the rescue, and not a minute too soon; for Turner, who now labored under the delusion that his recovery depended solely upon his getting out of bed every fifteen minutes, was sitting by the fire, looking up at the doctor, who pleasantly observed, while feeling his pulse:
"So you are getting ready for another fever, are you? Well, we've grown rather fond of you and will keep you six weeks longer if you have your heart set on it."
Turner looked nervous, for the doctor's jokes were always grim ones; but Ben took the other hand in his and gently rocked the chair as he replied, with great politeness:
"This robust convalescent of ours would be happy to oblige you, sir, but he has a pressin' engagement up to Jersey for next week and couldn't stop on no account. You see Miss Turner wants a careful nurse for little Georgie, and he's a goin' to take the place."
Feeling himself on the brink of a laugh as Turner simpered with a ludicrous mixture of pride in his baby and fear for himself, Dr. Bangs said, with unusual sternness and a glance at Ben:
"You take the responsibility of this step upon yourself, do you? Very well; then I wash my hands of Turner. Only, if that bed is empty in a week, don't lay the blame of it at my door."
"Nothing shall induce me to do it, sir," briskly responded Ben. "Now then, turn in my boy and sleep your best, for I wouldn't but disappoint that cheerfulest of men for a month's wages; and that's liberal, as I ain't likely to get it."
"How is this young man after the rash dissipations of the day?" asked the doctor, pausing at the bed in the corner after he had made a lively progress down the room, hotly followed by Ben.
"I'm first-rate, sir," panted Joe, who always said so, though each day found him feebler than the last. Everyone was kind to Joe, even the gruff doctor, whose manner softened and who was forced to frown heavily to hide the pity in his eyes.
"How's the cough?"
"Better, sir. Being weaker, I can't fight against it as I used to do, so it comes rather easier."
"Sleep any last night?"
"Not much. But it's very pleasant lying here when the room is still and no light but the fire. Ben keeps it bright; and when I fret, he talks to me and makes the time go telling stories till he gets so sleepy he can hardly speak. Dear old Ben! I hope he'll have someone as kind to him when he needs it as I do now."
"He will get what he deserves by and by, you may be sure of that," said the doctor, as severely as if Ben merited eternal condemnation.
A great drop splashed down upon the hearth as Joe spoke; but Ben put his foot on it, and turned about as if defying anyone to say he shed it.
"Of all the perverse and reckless women whom I have known in the course of a forty years' practice, this one is the most perverse and reckless," said the doctor, abruptly addressing Miss Hale, who just then appeared bringing Joe's "posey-basket" back. "You will oblige me, Ma'am, by sitting in this chair with your hands folded for twenty minutes. The clock will then strike nine, and you will go straight up to your bed."
Miss
