Mackenzie leaned over him.
"How are you?"
"Deuced bad," Trevelyan said slowly, and then the nausea returned.
The man in the next bed began to moan a little. Trevelyan turned to Mackenzie, a frown upon his face, as though he was trying to place the sound.
"What is it?" he asked. "What's that noise?"
"It's McHennessy—you'd better let us move you into our room."
Trevelyan shook his head.
"I suppose it's a blamed silly notion, but I'd rather be with the men." And then he stretched out his cold hands suddenly and grasped Mackenzie's convulsively, "The pain," he said.
Mackenzie looked up at Clarke and nodded to the question in the other's eyes.
Mackenzie took out his handkerchief and wiped the great beads off Trevelyan's forehead. When Clarke returned with the morphia, the nausea had come again.