Amos colored with pride, for it must be remembered that it was a Turner, and his own brother, of whom this praise was being spoken.
“We read accounts of that long flight he made that left a trail of alarm behind,” said Jack, “but there was no name mentioned. We only heard this very day through a British colonel that it was Frank Bradford.”
Amos left his work for a minute. He was so excited he felt he must find out a little more about Frank from the Red Cross attendant.
“How was he injured, Nurse?” he asked.
“The wings of his plane were fairly riddled with shrapnel,” she explained, “but he had escaped all that in a miraculous way. In fact, his only injuries consisted of a few minor hurts on one of his arms, where he had scraped it in falling, after he got back into our lines.”
“Was it his left arm?” asked Amos, quickly, and although the nurse may have possibly imagined this a foolish question, she answered it after a second’s thought.
“His left arm—yes, that’s the one he had injured, I remember.”
“My brother Frank had some tattoo work on his forearm,” explained Amos. “It was done by an old sailor he knew, and whose tales of worldwide adventure Frank was never tired of hearing. Can you remember, Nurse, whether the Frank Bradford you attended was marked with colored India inks—he had an eagle stamped there on his arm, a real screaming American eagle?”
“Yes, it was an eagle, I remember now,” she affirmed. “He laughed when I told him it was a shame to allow himself to be mutilated that way, and said he had dreamed of being a sailor some day, and visiting every quarter of the globe. He also told me he had been around pretty much during the last few years.”
Amos exchanged pleased glances with his cousin.