‘I’m afraid he’s a little delirious,’ said the doctor, as he put his finger again on the patient’s pulse. Old Do’-no-who seemed to hear this. He would open his eyes and say in a tone of triumph: ‘Sure! Won’t I be comminded for conspicuous gallantry!’ So, whilst some doubted, others could only see conviction in his clear steady blue eye as he again thankfully attempted to inhale more oxygen. His hands were continually seeking and fingering a little string of beads that lay beside him: ‘It was me rosary brought me t’rough,’ he said, as he relapsed into a painful sleep. Once he overheard some remark that rather pleased him, and he cut in rather unexpectedly: ‘Yes, prayer is the foundation of all graces.’ In spite of the constant and hideous strain of the breathing, we were amazed at the way his constitution bore him along. Also he had certain intervals of marked improvement and we almost dared to hope. So did Do’-no-who. ‘Sure we’ll niver die!’ he said, and his eyes shone with such confidence and joy that we began to think he was right. Even in his worst agony he had always managed to fling an occasional word of wit or chaff towards his companions. Now it was impossible to suppress him. Carried outside in his bed in the glorious sun, he and several of the patients quite revived under the influence of that soft May air. It was a pathetic little row of beds; some of the men’s faces so deadly white, others still of that dark uncanny colour which tells its own story of asphyxiation. Yet few there were, indeed hardly one of those men within earshot of Do’-no-who, that did not shake with weak giggling if he so much as opened his lips or looked across at them. There indeed was the medicine of the merry heart. Alas! for us all when one morning Do’-no-who began to show signs of relapse. He had had a bad night and was unmistakably low in his mind. Instead of the usual radiant smile and the variable welcome ‘I’m grand!’ or ‘Sure, I’ll be rightly sune,’ it was a kind of beaten look that greeted us. His glad expression had suddenly changed to one of unutterable sadness. He gravely shook his head without a word, and then sank back on the pillow. Every effort was still being put forth to relieve him, but oxygen, ‘dry-cupping,’ and various other remedies seemed this time to have lost their power. Only, strange to say, the doctor found his pulse had lost little of its strength. He told him so. ‘Mebbe, yer honour, but I’m greatly fataagued,’ murmured Do’-no-who, as he wearily closed his eyes. The truth was he had given himself up. Once a man does that it is little use to argue with him. Poor old Do’-no-who’s Gethsemane took the form of dire disappointment. ‘Sure, I’ll miss mi rewa-r-rd,’ he faintly whispered.