Quin

								

Bartlett? Where had he heard that name? Eleanor Bartlett? Some nonsense
about "Solomon's baby." Why, Rose Martel, of course.
Then all thought deserted him, for the world suddenly shrank to five feet
two of femininity, and he heard a gay, impersonal voice saying:
"May I put a cake of chocolate on your table?"
For the life of him, he could not answer. He only lay there with his
mouth open, looking at her, while she straightened the contents of her
basket. One more moment and she would be gone. Quin staked all on a
chance shot.
"Thank you, Miss Eleanor Bartlett," he said, with that ridiculous blush
that was so out of keeping with his audacity.
She looked at him in amazement; then her face broke into a smile of
recognition.
"Well, bless my soul, if it isn't Sergeant Slim! What are you doing
here?"
"Same thing I been doing for six months," said Quin sheepishly; "counting
the planks in the ceiling."
"But I thought you had got well. Oh, I hope it wasn't the dancing----"
"Lord, no," said Quin, keeping his hand over his bristly chin. "I'm
husky, all right. Only they've got so used to seeing me laying around
that they can't bear to let me go."
"Do you have to lie flat on your back like that, with no pillow or
anything?"
"It ain't so bad, except at mess-time."
"And you can't even sit up to eat?"
"Not supposed to."
Miss Bartlett eyed him compassionately.
"I am coming out twice a week now--Mondays and Fridays--and I'm going to
bring you something nice every time I come. How long will you be here?"
"Three weeks," said Quin--adding, with a funny twist of his lip, "three
weeks and three days."
"Oh! Were you the boy on the porch? How funny I didn't recognize you! I'm
going to ask Captain Phipps to let you off those extra days."
"No, you mustn't." Quin objected earnestly; "I'll take what's coming to
me. Besides," he added, "one of those days might be a Monday or a
Friday!"
This seemed to amuse her, for she smiled as she wrote his name and bed
number in a small notebook, with the added entry: "Oyster soup,
cigarettes, and a razor."
Just as she was leaving, she remembered something and turned back.
"How did you know my name?" she asked with lively curiosity.
"Didn't the Captain call it on the porch?"
"Did he? But not my first name. How on earth did you know that?"
"Perhaps I guessed it," Quin said, looking mysterious. And just then a
nurse came along and thrust the thermometer back in his mouth, and the
conversation was abruptly ended.
Of course the calendar must have been right about the three weeks that
followed; there probably were seven days in each week and twenty-four
hours in each day. But Quin wasn't sure about it. He knew beyond doubt
that there were three Mondays and four Fridays and one wholly gratuitous
and never-to-be-forgotten Sunday when Miss Bartlett brought his dinner
from town, and insisted upon cutting his chicken for him and feeding him