“Yes, I have had charge of it ever since this makeshift hospital was put up.”
“Well, how is the patient, our friend Mr. Warfield?”
“He had received a pretty ugly cut—a falling piece of wood or something of that sort—on the top and side of his head—a sort of glancing bruise. But he is getting on very well now. We have his fever under control. For a number of days he was very flighty and talked a great deal about Major Hampton.”
“I am honored,” said the Major, bowing.
“Oh, you are Major Hampton?”
“Yes,” said Gail, “Major Buell Hampton is Mr. Warfield’s best friend—that is, one of the best.” And she looked quickly at Roderick.
“How fortunate that you have come when he is convalescing. But tell me,” asked the nurse, “who is Gail? In his delirium he talked a great deal about her.”
Roderick’s face flushed, and Gail with rising color immediately changed the subject by asking: “How soon would it be safe to have the patient removed?”
“Oh, perhaps tomorrow or the next day. The doctor says he is now quite out of danger—the fever is practically gone.”
At Roderick’s request he was propped up on his little white iron hospital cot, chairs were brought, and until far on in the afternoon Gail and the Major sat on either side, conversing in quiet, subdued tones, relating incidents in the terrible disaster, planning for their early return to Wyoming just as soon as Gail’s father and Roderick himself could stand the journey.