"Is he—mortally hurt?"
"I've seen worse."
"He may get well?"
"I've seen 'em get well," said the non-committal ward-master. Then, looking Berkley over: "You're pretty dirty, ain't you? Are you—" he raised his eyebrows significantly.
"I'm clean," said Berkley with the indifference habituated to filth.
"All right. They'll fix you up a cot somewhere. If Colonel Arran comes out all right I'll call you. He's full of opium now."
"Did they get the bullet?"
"Oh, yes. I ain't a surgeon, my friend, but I hear a lot of surgeon talk. It's the shock—in a man of his age. The wound's clean, so far—not a thread in it, I hear. Shock—and gangrene—that's what we look out for. . . . What's the news down by the river?"
"I don't know," said Berkley.
"Don't you know if you got licked?"