Bob answered, with great relief at the loosening of his tongue, "I wish to ask you about Captain Bertrand. He seems very ill. Is there nothing that can be done for him? He has no care at all—I don't understand it." Bob's indignation got a little the better of him. His face flushed and his voice hardened.
The doctor nodded. "He should be transferred to a hospital. But with present difficulties it may two or three weeks take."
"Well, have you left him anything? Any quinine? I could give it to him in whatever doses you prescribe."
The doctor glanced keenly at the eager young American. His face seemed to say that Bob spoke without knowing all the facts. "I have left a little—yes," he assented. "Enough is not to be had."
Bob struggled with his feelings, uncertain whether the doctor's calmness was callous indifference or if he were simply doing his best with inadequate supplies and help. He thought he detected a little regret and human interest in his voice, in speaking of Bertrand's sad case, but the German was not disposed to be communicative. He seemed ready to move away now, but Bob took a sudden resolution.
"At least, doctor, you can obtain permission for me to sleep in Captain Bertrand's room and look after him until the fever goes. It is cruel to leave him alone with no help or companionship. Let me take care of him until you can arrange for his transfer."
The doctor thought silently for a moment. "I can see no objection to that," he said at last. "I will do it, if possible it is."
He nodded in a not unfriendly way, and walked quickly off, leaving Bob saying to himself in doubtful irritation, "Will you really do it, or just say you will do it, like the others?" He had somewhat more confidence in this man than in the other Germans about him, for he felt that a doctor's fellow-feeling extends with his profession beyond the borders of his own country, though he judged only by the French and British and American doctors he had seen among the enemy's wounded.
When he reached the door of his room the sergeant was standing by his table, and at sight of him Bob's spirits gave a sudden bound. On the table were laid some sheets of paper, envelopes, half a dozen post-cards, a few stamps and a pencil. The sergeant took note of the amount on his fingers and after a hasty calculation said, "Two francs, Herr Lieutenant."
Bob produced them, desperately eager for the chance to write, however hopeless such an attempt might be. But first he took advantage of the remaining free moments to visit Bertrand's room. The Frenchman was sitting on his cot, looking spent and weary, but at sight of Bob he smiled and held out his hand.