"His chances are better, because
they'll hang him if he gets well. They took the ball and a good deal of
shot out of his side, and there's a lot more for afterwhile, if he lasts.
He's been off the table an hour, and he's still going."
"That's in his favor, isn't it?" said Meredith. "And extraordinary, too?"
If young Dr. Gay perceived a slur in these interrogations he betrayed no
exterior appreciation of it.
"Shot!" exclaimed Homer. "Shot! I knowed there'd be'n a pistol used,
though where they got it beats me--we stripped 'em--and it wasn't Mr.
Harkless's; he never carried one. But a shot-gun!"
An attendant entered and spoke to the surgeon, and Gay rose wearily,
touched the drowsy young man on the shoulder, and led the way to the door.
"You can come now," he said to the others; "though I doubt its being any
good to you. He's delirious."
They went down a long hall and up a narrow corridor, then stepped softly
into a small, quiet ward.
There was a pungent smell of chemicals in the room; the light was low, and
the dimness was imbued with a thick, confused murmur, incoherent
whisperings that came from a cot in the corner. It was the only cot in use
in the ward, and Meredith was conscious of a terror that made him dread,
to look at it, to go near it. Beside it a nurse sat silent, and upon it
feebly tossed the racked body of him whom Barrett had called Jerry the
Teller.
Pages:
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226