Jane would have liked to let him say more, to have questioned him closely, herself eager to hear the least mention of the name which was always in the background of her thoughts. But she knew that he must not be allowed to use his feeble powers in this way. So after assuring him that Black was not the man to forget the four boys from the hill who had enlisted on that memorable day, she went on upon her rounds, her own mind filled with the vivid recollections young Dyer’s words had called up.
But she could not come near him on this night without his eyes imploring her to give him another word. So she learned that he was most unhappy lest the injuries he had received prevent his return to the Front, and was worrying badly about it. She became presently so interested in his state of mind that she called the attention of one of the surgeons to him. Doctor Mills read the record upon his cot-tag, looked at Dyer keenly through his big horn spectacles, and smiled, his own tired, thin face relaxing its tense look of care.
“You’ll get back, my lad,” he said, “when they’ve fixed you up. With that spirit you’ll get anywhere.”
Enos Dyer’s lips trembled. “It’s all right, then,” he murmured, with a sigh of relief. “I haven’t done nothin’ yet, an’ I figger to, ’fore I get through.”
“What were you doing when you got these?” The surgeon indicated Dyer’s bandaged shoulder and his slung leg.
“Just tryin’ a little job o’ my own, sir.”
“Not under orders?”
“Well, I guess I was under orders, sir—but the gettin’ through was sort o’ up to me.”
“I see. You’re a company runner?”
“Yes, sir.”