For a few seconds there was a silence between them, while Tom scanned the nurse's face closely.
"Do you mean to say he's going to die?" asked Tom, and his voice trembled a little.
The nurse nodded. "I am afraid so," she said. "He's too ill to see any one, and I doubt if he would know you."
"I am sure he would like to see me," said Tom pleadingly; "you see we were pals in Lancashire, and we saw a goodish bit of each other while we were in the camp in Surrey. I would like to see him if I could, I would really."
"Well, I shall have to speak to the doctor," was the nurse's reply.
"Will you wait here? I won't be long before I'm back."
A curious feeling came into Tom's heart. He did not know very much about McPhail, but he recalled the conversations that they had had in Lancashire, and he vividly remembered the night before they had started for the Front. McPhail had been very much wrought upon then. Tom had watched his face while they sat together in the Y.M.C.A. hut when the speaker was telling them about the deep needs of their lives. McPhail's face had become set and stern, although his lips quivered. Afterwards when they had gone to the canteen the Scotchman had uttered words which Tom never forgot.
He wondered now if McPhail had meant what he said, wondered too if he
had realised the same experiences which he, Tom, had passed through.
It seemed awful that this tall, stalwart Scotchman was going to die.
Why should men be killed in this way? Why should that lonely
Scotchwoman, McPhail's mother, have to suffer because of German sins?
The nurse came back to him. "He wants to see you," she said, "and the doctor says he may. He's been asking for you."
"Asking for me?" queried Tom.
"Yes, I didn't know anything about it. He's been telling another nurse that he wanted to see you. Pollard is your name, isn't it?"