Reggie sat down by the bed. The boy lay very still. His thin face was white. Only his eyes moved to look at Reggie, so little open, their pupils so small that they seemed all greenish - grey. He gave no sign of recognition, or feeling, or intelligence. Reggie put a hand under the clothes and found him cold and damp, and felt for his pulse.
“Well, young man, does anything hurt you now?”
“I’m tired. I’m awful tired,” the boy said.
“Yes. I know. But that’s going away.”
“No, it isn’t; it’s worse. I didn’t ought to have waked up.” The faint voice was drearily peevish. “I didn’t want to. It’s no good. I thought I was dead. And it was good being dead.”
“Was it? “Reggie said sharply.
The boy gave a quivering cry. “Yes, it was!” His face was distorted with fear and wonder. “I thought it would be so dreadful and it was all quiet and nice, and then I wasn’t dead, I was alive and everything’s awful again. I’ve got to go on still.”
“What’s awful in going on?” said Reggie. “Bessie wants you. Bessie sent you her love. She’s gettin’ well quick.”
“Bessie? Bessie’s here in bed like I am?” The unnatural greenish eyes stared.
“Of course she is. Only much - happier than you are.” The boy began to sob.
“Why do you cry about that?” Reggie said. “She’s got to be happy. Boys and girls have to be happy. That’s what they’re for. You didn’t want Bessie to die.”
“I did. You know I did,” the boy sobbed.
“I know you jumped in the pond with her. That was silly. But you’d got rather excited, hadn’t you? What was it all about?”
“They’ll tell you,” the boy muttered.
“Who will?”
“The keepers, the p’lice, the m - magistrate, everybody. I’m wicked. I’m a thief. I can’t help it. And I didn’t want Bessie to be wicked too.”
“Of course you didn’t. And she isn’t. What ever made you think she was?”
“But she was.” The boy’s voice was shrill. “She went to Mrs. Wiven’s room. She was looking for pennies. I know she was. She’d seen me. And Mrs. Wiven said we were all thieves. So I had to.”
“Oh, no, you hadn’t. And you didn’t. You see? Things don’t happen like that.”
“Yes, they do. There’s hell. Where their worms don’t die.”
The doctor made a muttered exclamation. Reggie’s hand held firm at the boy’s as he moved and writhed. “There’s God too,” he murmured. “God’s kind. Bessie’s not going to be wicked. You don’t have to be wicked. That’s what’s come of it all. Somebody’s holding you up now.” His hand pressed. “Feel?” The boy’s lips parted; he looked up in awe. “Yes. Like that. You’ll see me again and again. Now good - bye. Think about me. I’m thinking about you.” … He stayed a while longer before he said another “Good - bye.”
Outside, in the corridor, the doctor spoke: “I say, Mr. Fortune, you got him then. That was the stuff. I thought you were driving hard before. Sorry I spoke.”
“I was.” Reggie frowned. His round face was again of a ruthless severity. “Difficult matter to play with souls”, he mumbled. “We’ve got to.” He looked under drooping eyelids. “Know the name of the keeper who saw the attempted drowning? Fawkes? Thanks.”
He left the hospital and walked across the common.
The turf was parched and yellow, worn away on either side of paths loosened by the summer drought. Reggie descried the brown coat of a keeper, made for him, and was directed to where Fawkes would be.
Fawkes was a slow - speaking, slow - thinking old soldier, but he knew his own mind. There was no doubt in it that Eddie had tried to kill Bessie, no indignation, no surprise. Chewing his words, he gave judgment. He had known Eddie’s sort, lots of ‘em. ‘Igh strung, wanting the earth, kicking up behind and before ‘cause they couldn’t get it. He didn’t mind ‘em. Rather ‘ave ‘em than young ‘uns like sheep. But you ‘ad to dress ‘em down proper. They was devils else. Young Eddie would ‘ave to be for it.
That business of the boat? Yes, Eddie pinched that all right. Smart kid; you’d got to ‘and him that. And yet not so smart. Silly, lying up with it on the common; just the way to get nabbed. Ought to ‘ave took it ‘ome and sailed it over at Wymond Park. Never been spotted then. But “im and ‘is sister, they made a reg’lar den up in the gorse. Always knew where to look for ‘em. Silly. Why, they was up there yesterday, loafing round, before ‘e did ‘is drowning act.
“Take you there? I can, if you like.”
Reggie did like. They went up the brown slopes of the common to a tangle of gorse and bramble over small sand - hills.
“There you are.” The keeper pointed his stick to a patch of loose sand in a hollow. “That’s young Eddie’s funk - ‘ole. That’s where we spotted ‘em with the blinking boat.”
