“Do you drive?” asked Mary Louise.
“Fairly well, Miss,” he returned; “but I’m not much of a mechanic.”
“That’s my bother,” she insisted, laughing; “but if you like driving I’ll take you on my next trip and the girls will think I’m all swelled up at having a chauffeur. Only—” she paused, looking at him critically, and Danny saw the look and understood it. He blushed slightly, and the girl blushed furiously. She had almost “put her foot in it,” and quite realized the fact.
“The reason I have not kept my face washed,” he said in a quiet voice, “is because our old surgeon at camp told me the wound would heal better if I allowed nature to take her course. It was a bad slash, and while this seemed a curious treatment, the fact has been proved that the wound does better when covered with mud germs than with those from water. The only objection is that it makes me look rather nasty at present, but I made up my mind I could sacrifice anything in the way of looks right now if it would improve my looks in the future.”
“Who was the surgeon?” asked Mary Louise.
“Oh, a crazy old Frenchman who had helped many of our boys and so won their confidence.”
“I don’t believe in his theory,” declared the girl, after another steady look at the cut. “Seems to me that broad gap will always remain.”
“Had you seen it at first,” he said, “you would now realize that it has narrowed more than one-half, and is a healthy wound that is bound to heal naturally. However, this fact assures me I may now wash up and let the thing take care of itself. With my mud face there no object in trying to keep the rest of me clean, so I’ve degenerated into a regular tramp.”
“I suppose you’ve no clothes other than your uniform?” she said thoughtfully. “Do you apply treatment of any kind to your wound?”
“Nothing at all—Nature is the only remedy. And as for clothes, I haven’t the faintest idea what became of my old ‘cits.’ I was told to ship them home, but can’t remember whether I did so or not.”