"Well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "We'll take him next."
"Straighten him out there, won't you?" said Crittenden, gently, as the two men stooped for him.
"Don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, Doctor? He's my bunkie."
"All right," said Willings, kindly.
"And Doctor, give me that—what he has in his hand, please. I know her."
A tent at Siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea.
"Judith! Judith! Judith!"
The doctor pointed to the sick man's name.
"Answer him?"