Seizing McCullough by the arm, despite his protestations of injured innocence, she gently, but firmly, escorted him out of the ward.

“Vas! vas!—­Now you go, M’sieu McCullough! . . . out of ze ward right-away! . . .  Vat you say—­vat you do—­I do not know, but you ’ave excite ’im ’orrible! . . .  Oh, pardonnez-moi, Docteur!” she ejaculated, as she bumped into that gentleman in the corridor.

“Hullo!” said the latter inquiringly, as he remarked the little nurse’s flushed, angry face.  “What’s up, Sister Marthe?”

For answer, that irate lady pointed accusingly to McCullough.  That worthy, his questionable experiment accomplished, was retreating up the corridor as fast as his crutches could carry him.

“First, Docteur,” began the nurse indignantly, “’e blow smoke in ze eye of ze parrot, then ‘e turn roun’ to pauvre M’sieu ‘Ardy an’ ’e sing—­oh, I ’ave not ze English, but ’e blague ’im so—­

  “Vieux soldats ne meurent! jamais! jamais! jamais! 
  Vieux soldats ne meurent jamais!—­ils simplement passent!”

“An’ M’sieu ’Ardy ’e say:  ‘Vat about?’ an’ then ’e raise ’is two ’ands e Ciel—­so! an’ ’e tell Le Bon Dieu all about it.  Oh, ’ow ’e pray!  Ecoutez!  Docteur! you can ’ear ’im now! . . .”

And awhile Doctor Sampson listened, a grim smile lurking around the corners of his firm mouth, as he leaned against the open door of the ward.

“Praying, Sister?” he ejaculated.  “It’s the queerest kind of praying I’ve ever heard.  But is it him—­or is it the parrot?”

Two days later he remarked to the O.C. and Kilbride:  “I’m glad to be able to report a decided improvement in that man Hardy’s condition.  His pulse is stronger, his appetite is increasing and—­he’s beginning to grouse.  That old ruffian of a farrier-corporal, McCullough, was right, begad!—­he knew the man better than I did.  As a general rule I’m inclined to be rather sceptical of such drastic experiments, but in certain cases, er—­”

“Something of the sort might be beneficial if applied to young Redmond, too,” remarked the O.C., testily.  “He’s down in the dumps now; though to give him his due . . . he tries hard not to show it whenever I happen to be in the hospital.  Dudley, my Orderly-room sergeant, is leaving next month—­time-expired—­so I thought I was conferring a great favour on the boy by promising him the step-up—­good staff appointment—­give him a chance to recuperate thoroughly.  But no!—­my young gentleman courteously declines my munificent offer.  Nothing must serve him but he must go back to me Irish ‘ginthleman’ and that d——­d dissipated scamp of a Yorke.”

“It’s the spirit of comradeship,” remarked Kilbride quietly.  “If I might suggest, Sir, . . .  I think it would be better if you do decide to let him go back there.  They pull well together and do good work, those three.”

“’Ullo, Reddy!” called out Constable Hardy, as he directed his wobbly steps towards the bench on the hospital balcony where George was seated, “’ow long ’ave you bin up ‘ere?  Th’ O.C. an’ Kilbride was round jes’ now.  You didn’t see ’em, eh?”