“Injury to the nerve centre there. I can’t say. Possibly nothing may follow, but I am obliged to say the wound is bad, and there is danger of his being crippled—permanently injured in a way which would render him unfit for service.”
“But look here,” said the Major excitedly, “you have a bad habit of making the worst of things, Morton. Come, explain yourself. Are there any symptoms suggestive of what you hint at?”
“My dear Graham, I never come and interfere with your work; don’t you meddle with mine.”
“I don’t want to, sir,” said the Major tartly. “I only want for the Colonel and yours obediently not to be left in the dark.”
“Graham is quite right,” said the Colonel gravely. “We should like to know a little more.”
“Very good,” said the Doctor, “but I can only say this: there is a peculiar absence of sensation in the lower extremities, and especially in the poor fellow’s left arm. This may be temporary, and due to the terrible shock of the wound; but it also may be consequent upon injury to the nerves in connection with the spine. I can say no more. Time only will show.”
The two officers left the hospital-room, looking terribly depressed.
“Poor lad! poor lad!” the Major kept on saying. “Such a brave, unassuming fellow. It’s wonderful how little we realise how we like our fellow-men, Colonel, till they are badly hurt. Hah! I am sorry—more sorry than I can express.”
The Colonel said nothing, but turned and held out his hand, which the Major took and pressed warmly.
“Thank you, Graves,” he said, taking out a showy silk handkerchief and blowing his nose very hard, making it give forth sounds like those made by a boy beginning to learn the bugle. “Hah!” he said; “one never knows. Here to-day and gone to-morrow, Graves. May be our turn next.”