pay?”
“If I get a job at five pounds a week or more, I could manage ten bob.”
She calculated for a moment. “That would do.” She smiled at him. “All right, Mr. Warren—we’ll leave it at that for the time being. I shall want you to sign that note before you go, and of course I’ll tell you how much we have to charge you. And then you’ll pay it off at the rate of ten shillings a week when you get in work again.”
Warren nodded, his conscience more painful than his abdomen. “I might be able to pay it off quicker than that,” he said. “If I can, I will.”
She smiled again. “That’s very nice of you. It’s not that we want to press you when you’re out of a job, but the hospital does need every penny it can get. The poorer a town gets the more it needs its hospital, and of course, the harder it is to make ends meet.”
He was interested, having had to do with hospitals from time to time—generally when they were
in extremis
. “What’s the subscription list like?”
“Terrible. When I came here first Barlows were going. Twopence a week per man and three thousand men—that made twelve hundred pounds a year from Barlows alone. And then there were the rolling-mills, and the little firms—they all had weekly contributions to the hospital. But all that’s gone now. And of course the patients can’t pay much, either.” She smiled. “That’s why we have to get it back out of them when they get intowork again. But in the meantime, you see, the hospital has to do without the money.”
“I see that,” said Warren. “Are there endowments?”
“Very few.”
He wrinkled his brows. “What are you using for money then?”
“We get along. Lady Swarland is our sheet anchor; she helps us out each year with a subscription to put us on our feet again. I’m afraid it’s a great drain on her, but she keeps on. Year after year.”
“Lady Swarland,” said Warren. “Isn’t her son Lord Cheriton?”
“Yes—he’s in the Army, I think. But he lives down in London—we never see him up here.”
She left him, and went down to the little office that she occupied beside the Secretary. She went into the Secretary’s office; Mr. Williams was checking invoices at his desk.
“I’ve seen that man Warren, in the surgical,” she said.
“Can he pay?”
“Not a halfpenny. He’s a clerk, out of a job and walking south.”
The little man clicked his tongue in consternation.
“Hasn’t he got any money?”
“If he had, I’d have got it. I asked the sister what he had when he came in. He’s only got a little silver.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“A very good type. He’s a payer all right—when he gets in work. But there’s no saying when that will be.”
“Aye,” said the Secretary. He stood staring out of the window into the yard, short and rubicund. “I suppose the men will get in work again—some day.”
“I wouldn’t bank on that,” said Miss MacMahon.
Next day a consultation was held upon the riveter in the next bed to Warren. A screen was put around the bed while it was in progress; presently the screen was removed and the doctors and the nurses went away. The riveter leaned over towards Warren.
“Eh, mon,” he said. “They say I’m to have an operation the morn.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Warren.
“ ’Tis the Lord’s will, and we must say naething against it.”
“What’s the operation for?”
“For the colic I was telling you about. A something ulcer, they was calling it just now. But I don’t know.”
He lay back upon his pillows, inert and listless.
“Duodenal ulcer,” said the nurse in response to Warren’s enquiry, when she brought him his milk food for lunch. “Doctor Miller’s doing it tomorrow.”
That afternoon the riveter’s wife came to sit with him, a woman as tall and gaunt as Petersen himself, dressed in a faded black costume, with straggling grey hair and with appalling shoes. She brought with her a present of
“If I get a job at five pounds a week or more, I could manage ten bob.”
She calculated for a moment. “That would do.” She smiled at him. “All right, Mr. Warren—we’ll leave it at that for the time being. I shall want you to sign that note before you go, and of course I’ll tell you how much we have to charge you. And then you’ll pay it off at the rate of ten shillings a week when you get in work again.”
Warren nodded, his conscience more painful than his abdomen. “I might be able to pay it off quicker than that,” he said. “If I can, I will.”
She smiled again. “That’s very nice of you. It’s not that we want to press you when you’re out of a job, but the hospital does need every penny it can get. The poorer a town gets the more it needs its hospital, and of course, the harder it is to make ends meet.”
He was interested, having had to do with hospitals from time to time—generally when they were
in extremis
. “What’s the subscription list like?”
“Terrible. When I came here first Barlows were going. Twopence a week per man and three thousand men—that made twelve hundred pounds a year from Barlows alone. And then there were the rolling-mills, and the little firms—they all had weekly contributions to the hospital. But all that’s gone now. And of course the patients can’t pay much, either.” She smiled. “That’s why we have to get it back out of them when they get intowork again. But in the meantime, you see, the hospital has to do without the money.”
“I see that,” said Warren. “Are there endowments?”
“Very few.”
He wrinkled his brows. “What are you using for money then?”
“We get along. Lady Swarland is our sheet anchor; she helps us out each year with a subscription to put us on our feet again. I’m afraid it’s a great drain on her, but she keeps on. Year after year.”
“Lady Swarland,” said Warren. “Isn’t her son Lord Cheriton?”
“Yes—he’s in the Army, I think. But he lives down in London—we never see him up here.”
She left him, and went down to the little office that she occupied beside the Secretary. She went into the Secretary’s office; Mr. Williams was checking invoices at his desk.
“I’ve seen that man Warren, in the surgical,” she said.
“Can he pay?”
“Not a halfpenny. He’s a clerk, out of a job and walking south.”
The little man clicked his tongue in consternation.
“Hasn’t he got any money?”
“If he had, I’d have got it. I asked the sister what he had when he came in. He’s only got a little silver.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“A very good type. He’s a payer all right—when he gets in work. But there’s no saying when that will be.”
“Aye,” said the Secretary. He stood staring out of the window into the yard, short and rubicund. “I suppose the men will get in work again—some day.”
“I wouldn’t bank on that,” said Miss MacMahon.
Next day a consultation was held upon the riveter in the next bed to Warren. A screen was put around the bed while it was in progress; presently the screen was removed and the doctors and the nurses went away. The riveter leaned over towards Warren.
“Eh, mon,” he said. “They say I’m to have an operation the morn.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Warren.
“ ’Tis the Lord’s will, and we must say naething against it.”
“What’s the operation for?”
“For the colic I was telling you about. A something ulcer, they was calling it just now. But I don’t know.”
He lay back upon his pillows, inert and listless.
“Duodenal ulcer,” said the nurse in response to Warren’s enquiry, when she brought him his milk food for lunch. “Doctor Miller’s doing it tomorrow.”
That afternoon the riveter’s wife came to sit with him, a woman as tall and gaunt as Petersen himself, dressed in a faded black costume, with straggling grey hair and with appalling shoes. She brought with her a present of
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