The reformer, that underlay the artist in Larry, awoke.

"But, Mrs. Mangan," he said, hotly, sitting up in bed, and glaring
into the gloom at Mrs. Mangan's half-seen face, "why do they give
dispensaries to chaps that can't doctor a cat?"

"Because their fathers can spend four or five hundred pounds to buy
votes!" returned Mrs. Mangan, laughing at him. "Is that news to you?
Lie down child, and don't be looking at me like that! _I_ haven't
a vote to sell!"

Larry subsided with vague splutterings. Nurse came to his bedside and
smoothed the clothes.

"Listen to me now," she said impressively, "and _I'll_ tell you
something to make you angry, if you like!"

She leaned against the foot of the bed, with her hands in the pockets
of her apron, looking down at him. "I was in charge of th' infirmary
at Mellifont one time, and late one evening a young farm-boy was
brought in to me with a dislocated foot and a 'Pott's Fracture'--"

"In the name o' God, what's that?" enquired Mrs. Mangan.

"Fracture of the fibula, but the case I'm speaking of had the two
bones broken at the ankle," explained Nurse Brennan, in her most
professional manner; "sure I thought anyone'd know that! And I can
tell you," she leaned towards Larry, striking the palm of her left
hand with her little clenched right fist, as if to hammer the words
into him, "I can assure _you_, that as bad as you thought you