“That being so, London does not strike me as a good place for convalescents,” said Mr. Linton. “Pure air is what you’ll need; and that is not the fine, solid, grey variety of atmosphere you get here. And Zeppelins will be happening along freely, once they feel at home on the track to England. I don’t believe they will limit their raids to London. The big manufacturing towns will come in for a share of their attention sooner or later; and they won’t spare the country places over which they fly.” “Not they!” said Wally. “So, all things considered, I think you would be better in Ireland. I believe it’s peaceful there, if you don’t talk politics. We don’t want any adventures.” “We’ve had quite enough since we left Billabong,” said Norah. “Hear, hear!” said Wally. “I guess the calm peace of a bog in Ireland is just about our form until we’re ready to go back and take our turn at strafing.” “Then that’s settled—if the doctors will back me up,” Mr. Linton said. “Just as soon as they will let you we’ll pack up the fewest possible clothes and set out for a sleepy holiday in Ireland: trout-fishing, old ruins, bogs, heather, and no adventures at all.” Later on, they were to recall this peaceful forecast with amazement. At present it seemed a dream of everything the heart could desire; they fell into a happy discussion of ways and means, of the best places to buy fishing-tackle, of the clothes demanded by bogs and heathery mountains; until a nurse arrived with tea, and a warning word that the patients had talked nearly enough. At which the patients waxed indignant, declaring that their visitors had only been with them about ten minutes. “Ten minutes!” said the nurse, round-eyed. “Over an hour—and doctor’s orders were——” “Never you mind the doctor’s orders,” Jim said solemnly. “Doctors don’t know everything. Why, in Boulogne——” He broke off, assuming an air of meek unconsciousness of debate as the doctor himself appeared suddenly. “I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, transfixing patients with an eagle glance, while the nurse made an unobtrusive escape. “You were saying something about doctors, I think?” “Nothing, I assure you, sir,” said Jim, grinning widely. “Doctors—and Boulogne,” repeated the new-comer, firmly. “Don’t let me interrupt you.” “No, sir. Certainly not,” said Jim. “The doctors in Boulogne are very hard-worked.” “H’m!” said his medical attendant, receiving this piece of information with the suspicion it merited. “Quite so. We’re all hard-worked, these times, chiefly with looking after bad boys who ought to be back at school, getting swished. It’s an awful fate for a respectable M.D.” He gazed severely at the cheerful faces on the pillows. “You ought to be asleep; and of course you are not. Is this a hospital ward, or an Australian picnic?” “Both,” said Wally, laughing. “Don’t be rough on us, doctor; it isn’t every day we kill a pig!” The doctor stared.