“Stop talking? Better for me, you mean? Somehow I think a gloomy silence is really more——Oh, all right,—I’m dumb.”
Bob laughed outright this time. He turned to Androvsky who, head on hand, lay watching the young Britisher, a gentle smile on his pale lips.
“Did you ever see him before, Androvsky? Was he taken while you were with the Bolsheviki?”
“No, Gospodin Captain. When I fell wounded no Britisher had been taken.”
Bob looked intently at the Russian, remembering the conversation of an hour ago. Androvsky met his gaze with patient, melancholy eyes. But Bob’s leg had begun hurting too severely for him to ponder much over the questions that puzzled him. When Major Greyson had given the Britisher a quieting draught and left the room with his aides, Bob snuggled under the blankets out of the chilly air and, with a glance at the steadily falling snow outside the window, fell into a doze.
When he woke, by his wrist-watch it was four o’clock and night had fallen. The orderly had just brought in the lamp and had covered the Britisher with another blanket. Bob saw the young officer stir beneath his covers and look toward the cots in front of him. In the lamplight Bob could see that his lean face was very young, more boyish than his own. His fair hair lay in thick locks on his forehead, from which, Bob supposed, it was ordinarily brushed back, for now the Britisher raised a feeble hand and smoothed up the scattered strands which fell over his eyes.
“How do you feel, Captain?” asked Bob, nodding to him.
The Britisher gave a nervous start, then answered a trifle uncertainly, “Why—er—not too well. I say, sir, this is Nikolsk village, isn’t it? The American hospital? I expect my colonel knows I’m here?”
“Yes, but the storm is still raging. They could hardly come to you now, and certainly could not transfer you.”
“Right. I’m not complaining. A bit dizzy yet. The old bean doesn’t work fast. Do you—er—happen to know if there’s anything much wrong with me? Rather like to be on to it, you know.”