She was on her way to Nome.
She sat up and looked about at the wreck of wardrobe and the prostrate bodies of women. One made a noise like a half-suppressed moan. After a moment the owner of the little sound of misery got up and tried to put on a pink flannel jacket. For some reason that simple operation appeared to be painful. She was about to abandon it. Hildegarde, half-way down from her berth, said, “I’ll help you.” But the other shrank away. “No, no.” She leaned her forehead against the upper berth.
“You aren’t sick already, are you?”
“No, it’s only—they nearly broke my arm in the crush last night.”
“Oh-h!”
“I think it’s just strained, that’s all.”
As she turned round to sit on the edge of her berth, there, hanging outside the nightgown’s split sleeve, was the injured arm, bare to the shoulder, swollen, discolored.
“Oh! What have you been doing for it?”
“I was thinking of going out to get some cold water.”