His face had lost the gray of the early morning and resumed its normal tint. He never looked better and certainly never looked larger. He filled the narrow hospital cot completely, from side to side, and from end to end.
Two beautiful rooms had been secured for him at Mercy Hospital, one of the biggest and finest institutions in the west. The four windows of the sick room faced two on Calumet avenue and two on Twenty-sixth street, in a quiet part of town, away from the smoke and the roar of the elevated trains. To make the air more salubrious an oxygen apparatus had been placed in the room, which liberated just enough gas to make the air fresh and to give it an autumn twang.
In response to a question as to how he felt, he replied with a laugh: "I feel as well as a man feels who has a bullet in him."
"But haven't you any pain?" asked someone.
"Well," the colonel said, dryly, "A man with a bullet in him is lucky if he doesn't experience a little pain."
Here Dr. Terrell, always on watch, held up a warning hand.
"You must not talk much," he said.
"I'll boss this job," said Roosevelt. "You go away and let me do this thing."
Just then the door opened to admit Elbert E. Martin, the herculean stenographer who had grabbed Schrank before he could fire a second shot.
"Here he is," cried the colonel, waving his hand, "here is the man that did it."