Amos still lingered, not that he liked to see the gruesome sights, but from some reason he himself could hardly have explained had he been asked.
Just then two men who had an empty stretcher came in. Evidently they had searched in vain for a last victim, and failing to find any meant to give up the task.
One of them strode over to an army surgeon who, with shirt sleeves rolled up, had been industriously at work, though just then business seemed slack. Jack noticed that this person was a young fellow with a face well tanned by the air and sun. He had a rough bandage around his arm, which was stained by blood, and it was evident that while wounded slightly himself he had insisted on making use of his undoubted strength to carry some of the boys to the hospital.
The surgeon greeted him as though he looked on him as some sort of hero; for he began to quickly undo the hastily placed bandage so as to examine the cut made by a bayonet or flying shrapnel.
Amos uttered a little cry that made his chum turn and stare at him. He found the other focussing his eyes on the darkened face of the young man, while his hands were closed fiercely.
“Frank! oh! Frank!” almost shouted Amos.
At that the other whirled around and stared at the boy, who was now advancing towards him with outstretched hands.
“Don’t you know me, Frank?” cried Amos hoarsely. “It’s—your—own—brother—Amos!”
“Don’t you know me, Frank?” cried Amos.—[Page 308]