On this windy June
morning they had met in the dreary yard of the Workhouse, to which the
Infirmary was attached, and together they paced the long, whitewashed,
slate-paven passages that led to the Infirmary, pausing at intervals
to talk of matters quite unconnected with their patients, but, if the
frequency of the pauses, filled by the sibilant whispers of the little
doctor, and the deep growls of the big one, was any criterion, none
the less absorbing.
"His name's been accepted," ended the Big Doctor, after the lengthiest
of these, "and it would be no harm for you to be slipping in a word,
now and again, with the people through the country, according as you'd
get the chance, Danny."
"I will, I will," replied the little doctor, as he opened the door of
Father Sweeny's room.
"You're doing very well, Father," said Dr. Mangan, his inspection of
the patient ended. "I consider you couldn't be progressing more
satisfactorily." He seated himself by Father Tim Sweeny's bedside,
while the Nursing Sister-in-Charge rolled up bandages, and conferred
in lowered tones with Dr. Aherne, on the subject of what he called the
patient's "dite."
"You'll be going as strong as ever you did in a few weeks' time,"
continued Dr. Mangan, encouragingly.
Father Sweeny returned the Doctor's look morosely.
"I'm sick and tired of being here as it is," he said, gloomily, "and
you talk to me of weeks!"
"Ah, they'll pass, never fear they'll pass!" said the Big Doctor,
cheerfully.
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