“They are carrying the stretcher cases right down to the dressing station, I hear,” said the man.
“I'm going, doc,” said Barry, and was off at a run.
At the casualty clearing station there was no excitement, the doctors and orderlies “carrying on” as usual, receiving the wounded, dressing their wounds, sending them down with the smoothness and despatch characteristic of their department.
“Cameron?” said the doctor in answer to Barry's question. “Why certainly, I'll show you.” And he led him to Cameron's cot.
“Well, old chap,” said the doctor cheerily, “we're going to send you down in a minute or two. Now don't talk.”
Cameron's eyes welcomed Barry.
“Dear old boy,” said Barry, dropping on his knees beside him. “I'm awfully sorry.”
“It's all right,” whispered Cameron. “They—never—knew.—You'll write dad—and tell him—I kept—” The voice trailed off into silence. The morphia was doing its merciful work.
“Kept the faith,” said Barry.
“Yes,” whispered Cameron with a smile, faint but exultant.