learned.
The ward he lay in was a light and airy room, lit with windows down each side. Each bed was neat and tidy, with a red blanket folded methodically at the foot, and a standard locker by the side. Two of the beds had screens around them. For a time Warren lay and studied his surroundings. The ward was neat and clean, and yet there was something wrong about it that he could not place.
It was half an hour before it struck him what waswrong. The ward was overcrowded. There were six windows down each side and one at the end; it was clear that the architect had designed for six beds to a side, one between each window. But now the ward held nineteen beds, nine down each side and one across the bottom of the ward where no bed should have been. And all the beds were full.
He studied the occupants of the beds for a time. They lay inert, a gaunt and listless crew. One or two were reading newspapers and tattered books; most of them were lying still, staring at the ceiling, as though they were already dead. For all his weakness and his discomfort, Warren felt himself to be the only virile man in the whole ward.
He turned his head, and met the eyes of the man in the next bed. A tall, gaunt man of fifty years or so with a grey face; he lay quite motionless.
Warren saw that he was watched. “Morning,” he said.
There was silence for a moment, and then the man said:
“What’s your name?”
“Warren. What’s yours?”
“Petersen. Jock Petersen, they call me. Ye’re no from these parts?”
“I’m from America,” said Warren. “I had a job in Philadelphia.”
The grey face showed a flicker of animation. “Is things good in America? Would a man as was a charge-hand riveter get work oot there?”
“I don’t think so. It’s pretty bad.”
“Not even holding up?”
“I shouldn’t say so. There’s over ten million out of a job already over there.”
The animation died from the thin face. Listlessly the next question came.
“What brought ye back to England?”
“I was in a bank,” said Warren. “I got laid off with fifteen others, last September. Then I bummed around and spent my money, looking for a job. And then they picked me up, and put me on a boat for Glasgow. That’s what they do, unless you’ve taken out your papers.”
“Ye came by Glasgie?” said Petersen. “Eh, I’d like fine to be in Glasgie again.”
There was a pause, and presently the riveter said:
“What ails ye?”
“A twisted gut,” said Warren. “They cut out a bit and joined it up again. They say I’ll be as good as ever when it’s healed, but I wouldn’t trust to that.”
“Aye, I wouldna say that’s no a fact. Ye’ve made a fine recovery.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I had the colic awfu’ bad. They took me in for obsairvation, as they say.”
“Have you had it long?”
“Twa three months. It took me sair after eating or drinking. I couldna sleep nights for the colicky pain of it. I come to out-patients, and the wee doctor laddie he said to me to drink three pints o’ milk each day—the domned fool. Did ye ever hear o’ sich daft talk, with milk threepence a pint! And that wasn’t the end to it. There was baby’s food and all sorts I was to take—oot o’ thirty-one an’ six a week for the four of us, an’nine an’ three gaeing for rent. I got nae better, so they took me in for obsairvation.”
“You’ll be getting the milk now?” said Warren.
“Aye. An’ weary stuff it is.”
On the other side of Warren was a younger man, a dock labourer by the name of Thompson, making a slow recovery from appendicitis. He was largely inarticulate, and apparently had little interest beyond the football pools. He did, however, give one sound piece of advice.
“See here, chum,” he said hoarsely, “you want to watch that Miss MacMahon. She’ll try an’ make you pay for what they done to you, but don’t you do it. If you got any o’ the dibs, don’t let on, see? You got a right to be
The ward he lay in was a light and airy room, lit with windows down each side. Each bed was neat and tidy, with a red blanket folded methodically at the foot, and a standard locker by the side. Two of the beds had screens around them. For a time Warren lay and studied his surroundings. The ward was neat and clean, and yet there was something wrong about it that he could not place.
It was half an hour before it struck him what waswrong. The ward was overcrowded. There were six windows down each side and one at the end; it was clear that the architect had designed for six beds to a side, one between each window. But now the ward held nineteen beds, nine down each side and one across the bottom of the ward where no bed should have been. And all the beds were full.
He studied the occupants of the beds for a time. They lay inert, a gaunt and listless crew. One or two were reading newspapers and tattered books; most of them were lying still, staring at the ceiling, as though they were already dead. For all his weakness and his discomfort, Warren felt himself to be the only virile man in the whole ward.
He turned his head, and met the eyes of the man in the next bed. A tall, gaunt man of fifty years or so with a grey face; he lay quite motionless.
Warren saw that he was watched. “Morning,” he said.
There was silence for a moment, and then the man said:
“What’s your name?”
“Warren. What’s yours?”
“Petersen. Jock Petersen, they call me. Ye’re no from these parts?”
“I’m from America,” said Warren. “I had a job in Philadelphia.”
The grey face showed a flicker of animation. “Is things good in America? Would a man as was a charge-hand riveter get work oot there?”
“I don’t think so. It’s pretty bad.”
“Not even holding up?”
“I shouldn’t say so. There’s over ten million out of a job already over there.”
The animation died from the thin face. Listlessly the next question came.
“What brought ye back to England?”
“I was in a bank,” said Warren. “I got laid off with fifteen others, last September. Then I bummed around and spent my money, looking for a job. And then they picked me up, and put me on a boat for Glasgow. That’s what they do, unless you’ve taken out your papers.”
“Ye came by Glasgie?” said Petersen. “Eh, I’d like fine to be in Glasgie again.”
There was a pause, and presently the riveter said:
“What ails ye?”
“A twisted gut,” said Warren. “They cut out a bit and joined it up again. They say I’ll be as good as ever when it’s healed, but I wouldn’t trust to that.”
“Aye, I wouldna say that’s no a fact. Ye’ve made a fine recovery.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I had the colic awfu’ bad. They took me in for obsairvation, as they say.”
“Have you had it long?”
“Twa three months. It took me sair after eating or drinking. I couldna sleep nights for the colicky pain of it. I come to out-patients, and the wee doctor laddie he said to me to drink three pints o’ milk each day—the domned fool. Did ye ever hear o’ sich daft talk, with milk threepence a pint! And that wasn’t the end to it. There was baby’s food and all sorts I was to take—oot o’ thirty-one an’ six a week for the four of us, an’nine an’ three gaeing for rent. I got nae better, so they took me in for obsairvation.”
“You’ll be getting the milk now?” said Warren.
“Aye. An’ weary stuff it is.”
On the other side of Warren was a younger man, a dock labourer by the name of Thompson, making a slow recovery from appendicitis. He was largely inarticulate, and apparently had little interest beyond the football pools. He did, however, give one sound piece of advice.
“See here, chum,” he said hoarsely, “you want to watch that Miss MacMahon. She’ll try an’ make you pay for what they done to you, but don’t you do it. If you got any o’ the dibs, don’t let on, see? You got a right to be
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