“What do you mean?”
“Do you—remember that little trouble you had two years ago?”
“The—infection?”
“Yes. It’s left its mark.”
“What do you mean!”
“You’re all right for good solid hard work—here. But you aren’t quite in condition to meet the—requirements of the Service. You—you couldn’t get by, Red.”
Buller turned away, his chunky, square-fingered hand slightly unsteady as he put away the little tell-tale apparatus which had registered the hardest fact with which he had ever had to confront a patient—and a friend. There was a full minute’s silence behind him, while he deliberately kept his back turned, unwilling to witness the first coming to grips with the totally unsuspected revelation. Then:
“Do you mean to say my heart isn’t all right?” came in a queer, indignant tone which Buller knew meant only one thing: that Red minded nothing at all about his physical condition except as it was bound to affect the course upon which he had set out.
“Not—exactly.”
“Oh, quit treating me like a scared patient. I know you think you heard——”