"Thank you—it would be welcome."
"You are a splendid soldier, Hoare," I remarked, as Sister Dolly hurried away for the stimulant.
"I'm not really a soldier, sir. I've only been a few months in the ranks," he answered. "I'm a 'bus driver in London."
I thought to myself: "A 'bus driver in London—but a hero of heroes in France!"
He raised his head as Sister Dolly held the glass gently to his lips. "You are very kind," he murmured gratefully. "I'm a deal of trouble to you."
The little sister smiled sadly and shook her head, then without a word dashed from the room.
"I'd have burst out crying—if I'd stayed another minute," she exclaimed impetuously, when I met her a moment later in the hall. "I'm a fool, I know—I'm too chicken-hearted to be a nurse."
"You're a real woman," I ejaculated in genuine admiration; "the world is the better because you were born!"
We then visited the large ward. There were forty patients in it, most of them looking as jolly as if hospital life were one of the most amusing experiences in the world. Some were reading, some playing cribbage, some of those with minor wounds were helping about the ward, and all were smoking.
But one, who had just arrived, looked dangerously ill. We approached his bed, his greenish pallor was alarming. I felt for his pulse—it had disappeared. We gave him a hypodermic at once to stimulate him, but we knew all too well he was far beyond human aid. He smiled slightly as I spoke to him. His mind was clear, with that preternatural clearness which heralds death. I sat down beside his bed—it was screened off from the others—and took his hand.