The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1945, Blaðsíða 48

46
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
June 1943
the nurse to ask her to phone County to
see if he was all right. Of course it
was ridiculous. Bob was probably sound
asleep in his room over at the interne’s
quarters. She hoped he was. Between
the night the baby was born and the
nights he had been on call he was
pretty short of sleep this week. Down
the hall the rhythmic crying continued.
The sky was beginning to turn pink
outside her window before she finally
fell asleep again.
It was evening before she saw Bob.
The days routine had pushed the dream
back where it belonged—a nightmare
produced by Caroline’s stories of Burma,
her overheated room and the noisy
patient down the hall. And yet it all
came back when she saw Bob. He looked
pale and tired, but he laughed at her
when she asked if anything was wrong.
Then she told him her dream.
When she came to the end, Bob was
looking at her intently, listening to
every word. “And you say it was twenty
past two when the nurse came in.”
“Yes why?”
“Well. I wasn’t going to tell you. But
now I think I will.” He rolled back his
sleeve and showed her his arm. It was
bandaged. “Just a flesh wound” he
said. “I was lucky to get off this easily.
Listen to this.”
He had finished his rounds at the
County Hospital at one o’clock, he told
her and lain down for a rest on his bed
at the quarters. He had just fallen asleep
when they phoned from the men’s medi-
cal to say that Mr. Watson was dying.
There was nothing Bob could do. Mr.
Watson was a very old man and during
the past weeks he had suffered greatly.
Still Bob had the qualities which were
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