Naturally, these things affected a fellow built along the lines of sensitive Bumpus. He wished he had a chance to be of some use while there so close to the battle front; and as he trudged along a resolution began to form in his mind.
At first the boy had stopped several times on the road and looked long and wistfully back of him. To tell the truth, he was sorely tempted to turn “right about face” and go the other way. Paris lay in that quarter, and there he was likely to find his invalid mother. Bumpus hardly knew what his proper course should be. He did not believe she really needed him, because at last accounts she had been feeling very much better. Of course, like all mothers, she would be greatly worried concerning his safety. On that account he wished he might communicate with her; but since his three chums had decided to remain there and see the end of the great battle he really had no other choice.
So in spite of these pullings at his heart-strings the boy each time kept on as he had started. His resolution to be of some use to those in need grew stronger all the while. The procession of ambulances and vans filled with stricken humanity kept that determination fresh in his mind. While Bumpus of course did not pretend to know a quarter of the things connected with surgery that Thad, for instance, was able to practice, at the same time he had been drilled in the rudiments of the art, and could act as an assistant when called upon, bind up ordinary cuts, stop the flow of blood, fetch cool water to parched throats, and in many similar ways prove of service about a field hospital.
Well, he was getting along toward the spot where that low hill stood from which he and his three chums had lately watched the progress of the terrible fight on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in early September. Bumpus recognized it in the near distance by certain formations of trees at its base, which he, as a true scout, had impressed upon his memory at the time he stood there.
Then a new inspiration came to him. Why not stop one of these drivers and find out if the man knew anything about Thad and the rest—always providing he, Bumpus, could manage to make him understand English.
The idea impressed itself upon his mind as worth trying. Supposing the other fellows had been upon the road, their presence would be noticed by an observing driver, who could easily tell the boys in khaki were not natives.
With this scheme in view Bumpus waited for another van or ambulance to approach, when he meant to throw up his hand and signal for a stop. His opportunity was not long in coming; indeed, somewhat to his surprise, the motor ambulance marked with the significant Red Cross began to pull up even before he made motions.
Imagine the amazement of Bumpus when in the khaki-clad driver at the wheel he recognized a familiar form—no other, in fact, than his own chum, Giraffe, grinning at him as though greatly pleased over the unexpected meeting.
CHAPTER XV
IN THE SERVICE OF THE RED CROSS
“What’s this mean, Giraffe?”