Bruce was sitting opposite Nancy at a game of bridge that day, and she thought how really handsome he was, now that he had shaved off his beard, and his gaunt cheeks were beginning to fill out.
Pat Walden, the one-armed chap, for whom Nancy had finally made the apple pie, sat opposite Mabel. Nancy had devised a rack with nails driven through wood for Pat to stand his cards in while he played with his one hand. Her mother had sent out some magazines, published for the handicapped in the states. Nancy and Pat had quite an interesting time exploring the back issues in search of gadgets to help the one-armed. The magazines had gone the rounds of others who must begin life all over with various handicaps. Pat had a way of making jokes about his trouble, and Nancy had played the game with him as he learned to do things with one hand.
Many of the boys, however, were sullen and sensitive about their afflictions, and with these the nurses had to pretend that their handicaps didn’t exist. Though the wounds in Bruce’s side had been slow in healing, and he would always limp from the improperly knit leg bone, at least his body was whole, and the doctors assured him he would be strong again.
At the moment the number of cases was slightly reduced in number. Many of the earlier patients had been sent to ports to be taken home on ships that brought nurses and men over.
“I heard a rumor today,” said Mabel, “that we may be moved soon—out to the islands.”
“Soon?” asked Nancy eagerly.
“Don’t know. I just got a whiff of a change.”
“Nothing would thrill me more.”
Bruce threw down a card with vigor and glanced across at his fellow-sufferer. “That’s the way they treat us, Pat. Eager to leave us to our fate.”
“You’ll be moving on yourselves before too long,” Nancy assured him.