"He'll be quiet," said Blake, "and you will have the decency to be less rough." The indignant doctor walked away.
"Poor Hoodoo—he did his best," murmured John. "Get me out of this,
Blake. It's a hell of suffering. Take me to Tom McGregor at City Point."
"I will, but now I must go. General Parke hopes you are doing well. You will be mentioned in his despatches."
"That is of no moment—get me to McGregor. Hang the flies—I can't fight them."
John never forgot the ambulance and the rough railway ride to City Point, nor his pleasure when at rest in the officers' pavilion he waited for his old playmate. As I write I see, as he saw, the long familiar ward, the neat cots, the busy orderlies. He waited with the impatience of increasing pain. "Well, Tom," he said, with an effort to appear gay, "here's your chance at last to get even."
McGregor made brief reply as he uncovered the wounded joint. Then he said gravely, "A little ether—I will get out the ball."
"No ether, Tom, I can stand it. Now get to work."
"I shall hurt you horribly."
"No ether," he repeated. "Go on, Tom."
McGregor sat beside him with a finger on the bounding pulse and understood its meaning and the tale it told. "It will not be long, John," and then with attention so concentrated as not even to note the one stir of the tortured body or to hear the long-drawn groan of pain, he rose to his feet. "All right, John—it's only a slug—lucky it was not a musket ball." He laid a tender hand on the sweating brow, shot a dose of morphia into the right arm, and added, "You will get well with a stiff joint. Now go to sleep. The right arm is sound, a flesh-wound."