He was abstracted, an isolated personality, growing more isolated with every month that passed in his life; so that now he saw little of his surroundings and glanced but carelessly both at the depressing quarter from which he had set out and at the prosperous business section he presently entered. He merely thought, idly, that the city seemed a characterless place, like all other middle-western cities. And the imposing court-house, of white marble, that he passed shortly before reaching his hotel, did not impress him. It did, indeed, occur to him once that there was a certain tensity in the air, like that which characterizes a city in boom times, but the observation, purely involuntary, did not particularly interest him. It interested him not at all when later, glancing through the front page of a local paper, he learned the cause of the tensity—trouble with the negroes, “Another Dastardly Assault!”
Early the next morning he was back at Burnham’s house. The man seemed worse, Stacey thought with a touch of real sadness,—more feverish, more restless. There was no capacity for smiling, even faintly, left in Mrs. Burnham. The nurse, cool, professional, would express no opinion; and the doctor, too, when he came, was noncommittal.
“Before to-night there ought to be a decision one way or the other,” he said to Stacey. “I’ll come again at four. Call me up earlier if necessary.”
There was nothing to do but wait, and Stacey again settled himself in a chair near the foot of the bed.
The crisis came early in the afternoon. Burnham tossed and kicked furiously, and his incoherent muttering grew louder. Suddenly he raised himself on the palms of his hands into a half-sitting posture and stared directly at Stacey—or not really at him, through him.
“By God, Captain!” he cried wildly, in a high unnatural voice, “you’ve got nerve! Might’ve been shot . . . shot . . . shot! What hell you care? You wouldn’t do it!” He panted. “Not you, Captain! Said I’d follow you to hell. Nerve . . . nerve . . . nerve. . . .” His voice trailed away to silence, while the nurse leaned over him, pressing his shoulders down firmly.
Stacey had started at the words. They were spoken, he knew, in delirium, not to him but to a shadow vanished eleven months since, but Stacey understood them. Burnham knew, then, did he, about that Argonne attack? Good! Probably no other kind of approbation from any source would have touched Stacey, even faintly. This, for an instant, made him thrill with a fierce proud happiness. The next moment there was nothing left in his consciousness but concern for his friend.
But Burnham lay quiet now, his color less vivid, his breath coming and going easily, and the nurse looked at Stacey and Mrs. Burnham with a smile.
“I think he’ll get along all right now,” she said pleasantly.
Stacey wiped his forehead, and Mrs. Burnham, collapsing into a chair, laid her head on a table and wept softly.