“And, Duncan, remember,” said Barry, in a quiet and solemn voice, “there's more than that to McPherson. That fine young chap whom you knew and loved is not that poor and battered piece of clay. Your friend has escaped from death and all its horrors.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” whispered Cameron, still shaking. “We'll go out now, sir. I'll be all right. I assure you I'm all right.”
They passed out into the dressing-room again, where the wounded were continuing to arrive. Cameron was for departing at once, but Barry held him back, unwilling that the lad should be driven away beaten and unnerved by what he had seen.
“I say, Duncan, let's see some of these boys. We can perhaps cheer them up a bit. They need it badly enough, God knows.”
“All right,” muttered Cameron, sitting down upon a bench in the shadow. They waited there till Dr. Gregg came along.
“Hello, Dunbar, you are looking seedy. Feeling rotten, eh?” said the doctor, eying him critically for a few moments.
“Oh, I'm all right,” said Barry. “The truth is, I've just been in there with young Cameron. Rather a ghastly sight. Cameron's badly knocked up. Can you do anything for him?”
“Sure thing,” said the doctor cheerfully. “Stay right there where you are. I'll bring you something in a moment or two. Now sit right there, do you hear? Don't move.”
In a few moments he returned, bringing hot coffee for them both.
“There,” he said in a cheerful matter-of-fact voice, “drink that.”