“Bad collapse; need rest. I wonder you did not drop dead, carrying a man on your shoulder across No Man’s Land after that hurt.”
One unpleasant fact was evident to me, and that was, I was in the clutches of a surgeon. I always did hate doctors.
I got up, looked in a little mirror to smooth my hair, and started back to see a pale face looking out at me. I turned to go out of the door, but was confronted by a blue-eyed Red Cross nurse and a burly attendant.
“Let me alone,” I protested, “I want to see how my friend, Lieutenant Nickerson, got out of the fight.”
The nurse pointed, as a reply, to a near-by cot where a still form lay. “What’s the matter!” I exclaimed, striding to the cot. “Who is it?”
I needed no answer, it was Jot.
“What’s the matter?” I again cried. “Is he dead?”
“No,” said the surgeon; “only stunned; concussion of the brain from a heavy blow. He will be all right with proper attention, after a while.”
“How did he get here?”
“Why, don’t you know?” he answered. “They said that you brought him across No Man’s Land almost on a run.”