Patrick took a wondering look around him. Where was he? He tried to raise himself, but terrible pain overcame him. He felt stifled. His parched tongue felt like wood in his mouth.
A sound of footsteps; someone was there. A man in a white coat approached his bed with a syringe in his hand.
“This is to ease your pain and help you to breathe,” said a pleasant voice.
“Where am I?” murmured Patrick faintly. “Why am I so sick?”
“In the hospital, little fellow, and be content to have escaped with a broken leg,” replied the doctor, quickly inserting his needle in the swollen arm of the sick boy. All at once Patrick remembered everything.
“Where are my chums?” he asked feebly.
“They are all paying for their lark in one way or another,” replied the doctor. “When you have more strength, we can discuss all that. For the moment, you should sleep.”
The doctor whispered something to the nurse; they both disappeared and the door was shut, leaving Patrick to his sufferings and his unhappy thoughts. Thanks to the injection, he was not long in sinking into a heavy sleep, and dreamed that Mr. Mollet held him by the throat, crying, “Bring back my car, or I’ll throw you into that crevasse where your companions have already perished.”
A spasm of sharp pain woke him suddenly. His mother was there. She held his hand and wiped his damp forehead.
“My poor Patrick!” she said. There was a long silence, which seemed to say, “You have given me much cause for suffering, but I’m not going to reproach you. You are punished enough.”
Patrick felt so depressed and weak that a great dread seized him. “Tell me, Mommy, am I going to die?”
“Oh no, my boy. It’s quite understandable that you feel weak. For two days you’ve had nothing to eat and have been unconscious, and your leg can’t get used to the traction which hurts very much. Also, you caught a cold, and that’s why you find it hard to breathe.”
Patrick did not seem very reassured.
“Mommy,” he said, “If I die, tell Mr. Mollett that I didn’t know the van belonged to him; and tell Dad that if he had not gone away I should never - ” He did not finish the sentence, falling again into a troubled sleep, full of confused, terrifying dreams. For the next six days Doctor Garnier and the nurse rivaled each other in efforts to combat the pneumonia which held Patrick in its grip.
Mrs. Demier and Carol in turn watched beside the suffering boy, who no longer recognized them. One evening, Patrick’s state was so alarming, that the doctor dared not hide the truth from his mother as she mutely questioned him with her eyes.
“Ought I to send a telegram to his father?” she asked despairingly.
“Humanly speaking, there is little hope,” murmured the doctor. “I have exhausted all the known resources for such cases; but one never knows with young folk, and God can work a miracle and save your son. But send your telegram all the same.”
Patrick almost choked, recovered himself, and sank again into unconsciousness. They resorted to oxygen. At daybreak, there was a change. His breathing became easier, more regular; his temperature dropped.
“There is definite improvement,” declared Dr. Garnier to the anxious lady. “Go and take a little rest; you will be called if necessary. The nurse will stay with Patrick.”
Patrick opened his eyes; he felt as if floating between life and death. “Who is this man with the strong, good face whose presence always gives me a sense of peace,” he thought. Patrick was too weak to move or pronounce one word. He could only look at this man as he lit the bedside lamp, and felt his hand, a father’s hand, clasp his own.
“The Lord has heard our prayer;” thought the doctor, worn out and weary. “That boy will live.”