I wondered how he knew that I knew him.
"Yes. Well, you want to look out for him. Don't let him fool you. He's deep. What's that running down your sleeve? Why, it's blood! Where did it come from?" He looked much concerned.
"From my arm, I reckon. I hurt it a little back there, but it is nothing."
He refused to be satisfied with my explanation and insisted strongly on my getting off and going with him to see a doctor. I laughed at the idea.
"Why, I haven't any money to pay a doctor," I said.
"It won't cost you a cent. He is a friend of mine and as good a surgeon as any in the city. He's straight—knows his business. You come along."
So, finding that my sleeve was quite soaked with blood, I yielded and went with him to the office of his friend, a young doctor named Traumer, who lived in a part of the town bordering on the working people's section, which, fortunately, was not far from where we got off the car. Also, fortunately, we found him at home. He was a slim young fellow with a quiet, self-assured manner and a clean-cut face, lighted by a pair of frank, blue eyes.
"Doc," said my conductor, "here's a friend of mine who wants a little patching up."
"That's the way with most friends of yours, Bill," said the doctor, who had given me a single keen look. "What's the matter with him? Shot? Or have the pickets been after him?"
"No, he's got his arm smashed saving a man's life."