“Some one I know,” said Barry, standing still and looking from one to the other.
“Ay, sir. Some one we all know and greatly respect,” replied the sergeant major.
“Not—not—oh, not my father!”
The M. O. nodded.
“Bad, doctor? Not dying, doctor?” His face was white even in spite of his tan. His hands closed about the doctor's arm in a grip that reached to the bone.
“No, not dying, Barry, but in a bad way, I fear.”
“Take me,” muttered Barry, in a dazed way, and they moved together rapidly across the platform.
“Wait a moment, doctor,” said Barry, breathing hard.
They stood still, a silent and sympathetic group of soldiers about them. Barry turned from them, walked a few steps, his clasped hands writhing before him, then stood with his face uplifted to the sky for a few moments.
“All right, doctor, I'll follow,” he said, coming quietly back. “Will he know me?”