Kars was standing in the doorway of the storehouse where Bill was calmly prosecuting his work of mercy. The doctor's smallish figure was moving rapidly about the crowded hut. His preoccupation was heart whole. He had eyes and thought for nothing but those injured bodies under their light blanket coverings, and the groans of suffering that came from lips, which, in health, were usually tainted with blasphemy.
All Kars' thoughts were at the moment concerned with the busy man. That array of figures had already told him its story. A painful story. A story calculated to daunt a leader. Just now he was thinking how his debt to this man was mounting up. Years of intimate friendship had been sealed by incident after incident of devotion. Now he felt that he owed his present being to the prompt response to his signal of distress. But Bill had never failed him. Bill would never fail when loyalty was demanded. He breathed devotion in every act of his life. There could be no thanks between them. There never had been thanks between them. Their bond was too deep, too strong for that.
The dull lamplight revealed the makeshift of the hospital. There were no bunks, only the hard earthen floor cleared of stones. Its log walls were stopped with mud to keep the weather out. A packing case formed the table on which the doctor's instruments were laid out. It was rough, uncouth. Its inadequacy was only mitigated by the skill and gentle mercy of the man.
Kars' voice broke in upon the doctor's preoccupation.
"Twenty," he said. "Twenty out of eighty."
Bill glanced up from the wounded head he was dressing.
"And the fight just started."
Kars stirred from the support of the door-casing which had served to rest his weary body.
"Yes," he admitted.
Then he turned away. There seemed to be nothing further to add. He drew a deep breath as he moved into the open.