There came a long, tense silence.

“G—–­d!” broke out Yorke suddenly, arousing Redmond out of the deep reverie into which he had sunk on receipt of the news—­“the look on that Eugene Aram face of his when the jury filed in and threw the book at him!  I can’t forget it somehow.”

“Well! yeh want tu thin!” remarked Slavin bluntly.  “Quit ut! . . . d’ju hear? . . .  ’Tis no sort av talk, that, for a sick room. . . .”

And hereafter they all avoided the sinister subject.

Presently McCullough came limping in on his crutches, and ere long that wily individual succeeded with his customary ingenuity in inveigling the company into a facetious barrack-room argument.  Later they commenced relating racy stories.

Slavin’s deep-set eyes began to twinkle and glow, as he unburdened himself of a lengthy narrative concerning a furlough he had spent in his native land many years back, in which Ballymeen Races, a disreputable “welshing” bookmaker, himself, a jug of whiskey and a blackthorn stick were all hopelessly mixed in one grand Hibernian tangle.

“Beat ut, he did, over hedge an’ bog an’ ditch, wid all our money, th’ dhirrty dog.  But I cud run tu, in thim days, an’ whin I caught up I shure did play a tchune on th’ nob av um!” concluded the sergeant thoughtfully.  In pursuance of his daily round of the wards, Dr. Sampson presently came swinging in amongst them and saluted the party with his usual breezy bonhomie.  A universal favourite with the members of the Force his entry was acclaimed with delight.  They promptly bade him sit down and contribute—­a la Boccaccio—­to their impromptu Decameron, which request he (sad to relate) complied with.

Amid the roar of laughter that greeted the Doctor’s last bon mot, that gentleman looked ruefully at his watch and prepared to depart.

“Twenty past twelve!” he ejaculated, “and I’ve got four more patients to see yet. . . !  Behold the retarding influences of bad company!”

“Say, Doctor,” enquired Yorke, “how’s Hardy doing?  Is he bucking up at all?  He was pretty down in the mouth last time I saw him.”

The Doctor’s genial countenance clouded slightly.  “Well, no!” he said, gravely, “he’s not doing well at all.  I’ve been rather worried over him lately.  The man’s relapsed into a curious state of inertia—­seems incapable of being roused.  Organically he’s nothing to fear now; I’ll stake my professional reputation on that.  But when a man gets down like he is now, why, the mind often reacts on the body with serious results.  If he was in a tropical climate he’d snuff out like a candle.  That’s all that’s retarding his otherwise certain recovery now—­if we could only——­”

Here, McCullough, who had been an interested listener broke in.  “Rouse him, Doctor?” he queried, “you say he wants rousing? . . .  Is that all? . . .  All right then! . . .  I know him better than you do—­I’ll bet you I’ll rouse him!” he concluded a trifle brutally.