"O, that's it, is it? all right; glad I'm here then; getting in didn't hurt more than a flea-bite,"—saying which Jim turned his face away to put his teeth down hard on a lip already bleeding. The wrench to his shattered leg was excruciating, "But then," as he announced to himself, "no snivelling, James; you're not going to make a spooney of yourself." Presently he moved, and lay quietly watching the others they were bringing in.
"Why!" he called, "that's Bertie Curtis, ain't it?" as a slight, beautiful-faced boy was carried past him, and raised to his place.
"Yes, it is," answered one of the men, shortly, to cover some strong feeling.
Jim leaned out of his berth, regardless of his protesting leg, canteen in hand. "Here, Bertie!" he called, "my canteen's full of fresh water, just filled. I know it'll taste good to you."
The boy's fine face flushed. "O, thank you, Given, it would taste deliriously, but I can't take it,"—glancing down. Jim followed the look, to see that both arms were gone, close to the graceful, boyish form; seeing which his face twitched painfully,—not with his own suffering,—and for a moment words failed him. Just then came up one of the sanitary nurses with some cooling drink, and fresh, wet bandages for the fevered stumps.
Great drops were standing on Bertie's forehead, and ominous gray shadows had already settled about the mouth, and under the long, shut lashes. Looking at the face, so young, so refined, some mother's pride and darling, the nurse brushed back tenderly the fair hair, murmuring, "Poor fellow!"
The eyes unclosed quickly: "There are no poor fellows here, sir!" he said.
"Well, brave fellow, then!"
"I did but do my duty,"—a smile breaking through the gathering mists.
Here some poor fellow,—poor indeed,—delirious with fever, called out, "Mother! mother! I want to see my mother!"