army-pattern boots were not soled for silence. It echoes the thud-thud
of crutches. It echoes the slurred rumble of wheeled chairs and
stretcher-trollies. But, above all, at half-past four on concert days it
echoes happy talk and chaff and boisterous laughter.

As often as not, the loudest talk, the cheeriest chaff, the most
spontaneous laughter, emanate from the blue-clad stalwarts who have
mustered from the "D" Block wards.

"D" Block contains the wards for eye-wound cases.

Here they come, a string of them, mostly with bandages round their
heads. The leading man owns one good eye--a twinkling eye--an eye of
mischief--an eye (you would guess at once) for the girls. (But the eye's
owner probably calls them the "pushers." Such is our language now.)
Behind him, in single file, and in step with him, march a gang of
patients each with his hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Tramp,
tramp! Their tread is purposely thunderous on the bare boards of the
corridor. They sing as they advance. It is a ragtime chorus whose most
memorable line runs, "You never seem to kiss me in the same place
twice." A jaunty lilt, to be sure, both in tune and in rhythm. Tramp,
tramp! The one-eyed leader swerves round a corner, roaring the refrain.
His followers swerve too. Suddenly the Matron is encountered, emerging
from her room. "Fine afternoon, Matron!" The leader interrupts his chant
to utter this hearty greeting. And, with one voice, "Fine afternoon,
Matron!" exclaim his followers. But they do not turn their heads. Each
with his hand resting on the shoulder of the man in front they go
steadily on, towards the concert-room, with an odd intentness, glancing
neither to one side nor the other. For though, at their leader's cue,
they have hailed the Matron, they have not seen her. They are blind.