The ambulanciers who, during their forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost, always remained fully dressed, were content to get what rest they could on the stretchers. Pictures clipped from newspapers and magazines adorned the walls, and Dunstan had also contributed his talent toward making the place pleasant and cheerful by hanging several of his paintings in conspicuous positions.
The drivers stationed at the outpost questioned Don Hale as eagerly concerning his experiences in Paris as the boys at the Hotel de la Palette had done. Any news was welcome to the ambulanciers, who were compelled to pass so much of their time away from the general haunts of men.
"Why in thunder didn't you bring us a stack of prints?" demanded Ravenstock.
"Look in the car," laughed Don.
"Good old scout!" cried the driver, making a rush outside.
In a moment or two, returning with a bundle of Parisian dailies, he was immediately besieged by the others and left in possession of a single copy. Thereupon all, including the three French surgeons, Docteurs Benoist, Savoye and Vianey, deciding that it would be more pleasant outside, left the shelter and made themselves comfortable by the entrance.
The sun, rising higher in the heavens, sent shafts of light over the ground and spotted the boughs and tree trunks with its radiance. Birds flitting among the branches kept up a constant and noisy chattering.
Dunstan, true to his artistic impulses, began making a sketch of Docteur Benoist, and after more than a half hour of studious application, paused long enough to hold it up for inspection.
"Capital—capital!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, who possessed some knowledge of English. "What certainty of touch!—worthy of Sargent himself, Monsieur Farrington."
"Sargent! Who's Sargent?" demanded Vincent.