Catoctin clarion. [volume], June 19, 1913, Image 1

About Catoctin clarion. [volume] (Mechanicstown, Md.) 1871-1940

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The Catoctin Clarion.
■■■■■■
Iff ii 'XNAwili 1 ~
i •
G.
By OCTAVE THANET
Autl nof { I
“The Man of the Hour, I'he I.ion's '.hare,"
mJW.vIv “By Inheritance," etc.
((/ODVrltft/l Lylhn HubM-Murrl 11 On I
IHE dies ana me sun;.
The sun and the flies!
The two tents of the di
vision ward in the hos
£ pita) had been pitched
end to end, thus turning
-g" them into one. The sun
V filtered through the
LI cracks of the canvas; It
poured in a broad, danc
clug, shifting column of gold through
the open tent flap The air was
hot, not an endurable, dry heat,
but a moist, sticky heat which
dtew au Intolerable mist from the
water standing in pools beneath the
plain flooring of the tents. The Hies
had no harrier and they entered in
noisome companies, to swarm, heav
i'y buzzing, about tl e medicine spoons
and the tumblers and crawl over I lie
nostrils and mouths of the typhoid
patients, too weak and stupid to
brush them away.. The oilier sick
men would lift their feeble skeletons
oi hands against them; and a tall sol
dier who walked between the rots
and was the sole nurse on duty,
waved his palm-leaf fan at them and
swore softly under his breath.
There were ten serious cases in tlie
ward. The soldier was a raw man de
tailed only the day before and not
used to nursing, being a blacksmith
In civil life. An overworked surgeon
had Instructed him in the use of a
thermometer: but he was much more
confident of the success of Ids lesson
than the instructed one. There was
one case In particular bothered the
nurse; he returned to the cot where
this case lay more than once and
eyed the gaunt figure which lay so
quietly under the sheet, with a de
jected attention. Once he laid his
hand shyly on the sick man's fore
head, and when he took It away he
‘■trangled a desperate sort of sigh
Then he walked to (he end of the tent
and stared dismally down the camp
street, flooded with sunshine. "Welt,
thank God, there's Spruce!” said' be
A man In a khaki uniform, carrying a
hale of mosquito netting, was walking
smartly through the glare. He
stopped at the tent. "How goes
said he, cheerfully, but in the lowest
of tones. He was a short man and
thin, but with a good color under his
tan, and teeth gleaming at his smile,
white as milk.
"Why, I'm kinder worried about.
Maxwell—”
Before he could finish his sentence.
Spruce was at Maxwell's cot. His
face changed. "Git the hot-water hot
tie quick's you can!" he muttered,,
"and git the screen —the one I made!"
As he spoke he was dropping brandy
into the corners of Maxwell’s mouth
Thp brandy trickled down the chin.
"He looks awful quiet, don't he?"
whispered (he nurse with an awe
struck glance.
"You git them things!” said Spruce,
and he sent a flash of his eyes after
his words, whereat the soldier shuf
fled out of the tent, returning first
with (lie screen and Inst with the Dot
tles. Then he watched Spruce’s rapid
hut silent movements. At last he
ventured to breathe: "Say, he ain't
—lie ain't—he ain’t—?”
Spruce nodded. The other turned
a kind of groan into a cough and
wiped his face. Awkwardly he helped
Spruce wherever there was the chance
for a hand: and in a little while his
bungling agitation reached the work
er, who straightened up and turned
a grim face on him
“Was It me?” he whispered then.
“For God’s sake, Spruce—l did every -
thing the doctor told me, nigh's I
could remember. 1 didn't disturb him.
’cause he 'peared to be asleep. I—l.
never saw a man die before!”
"It ain’t no fault of yours.” said
Spruce In the same low whisper
"Tm sorry for you. Did you give him
the ice I got?"
“Yes I did, sergeant.”
The soldier was looking at the i>la
eld face. A sob choked him. 'He
said: ‘Thank you,’ every time 1, gave
Dim anything.” he gulped. “God! it's
murder to put fools like me at nurs
ing; and the country full of women
that know how and want to come!”
"S-s-s! 'Taln’t no good talking.
You done your best. Go and report.”
As the wretched soldier lumbered
off Spruce set his teeth on an ugly
oath.
“I ought to have stayed, maybe,”
he thought, "but I've been doing with
so little sleep, my head was feeling
dirty queer; and the doctor sent me.
Collapse, of course; temperature ran
down to normal, and poor Tooley
didn’t notice, and him too weak to
talk! Well, I hope I git the G boy
through, that's .all I ask!”
He went over to the next cot. where
lay the nearest of the G boys, greet
ing him cheerily. "Hello, Dick?”
Dick was a handsome young spec
ter. just beginning to turn the corner
in a bad case of typhoid fever. His
blue eyes lighted at Sprnce’s voice:
and h© sent a smile back at Spruce's
smile. "Did you get some sleep?’*
said he. “What's that you have It*
your hand-?”
“That’s milk, real milk from a cow.
Yes, lots of sleep; you drink that.”
The sick man drank It with an ex
pression of pleasure. "I don’t beMeve,
A Family Newspaper—lndependent in Politics—Devoted to Literature, Local and General News.
THURMONT, FREDERICK COUNTY, MD., THURSDAY, JUNE -PT 1913.
any ol Uie outers got milk,” he mur
mured; "save the rest for Edgar.”
"Edgar don’t need it, Dick,” Spruce
answered gently.
Dick drew a long, shivering sigh and
his eyes wandered to the screen, "lie
was a soldier and he died for his
country jest the same as If lie were
hit by a Mauser," said Spruce—ho
had taken the sick hoy's long, thin
hand and was smoothing his lingers.
"It's no more 'an what we all got to
expect when we enlist."
“Of course," said Dick, smiling,
"that's all right, for him or for me,
lint he —he was an awfully good fel
low, Chris."
"Sure," said Spnico. “Now, you lie
still; I got to look after the other
hoys.”
"Come hack when you have seen
them. Chris.”
"Su re,”
Spruce made his rounds. He was
the star nurse of the hospital. It was
partly experience. Chris Spruce had
been a soldier In the Regulars and
fought Indians and helped flie regi
mental surgeon through a had attack
of typhoid. Put it was as much a
natural gift. Chris had a light foot, a
quick eye. a soft voice; he was in
domitahly cheerful and consoled the
most querulous patient in the ward by
describing how much better was his
lot with no worse than septic pneu
monia, than that of a man whom lie
i Spruce) had known well who was
scalped. Spruce had enlisted from a
western town where he had happened
to lie at the date of his last discharge
He had a great opinion of the town
And he never tired recalling the scene
of their departure, amid (ears and
cheers and the throbbing music of a
brass hand, with their pockets full of
cigars, and an extra car full of lunch
eon boxes, and a thousand dollars
company standing money to their
credit.
“A man he comes up to me." says
Spruce, ‘‘big man in the town, rich
and all that. He says, calling me by
name 1 don’t know how lie ever
got my name, but ho had It —lie says:
‘l'm told you've been with the Regu
lars; look after the boys a little.' says
he. ‘That I will.’ says I, ‘l've been
six years In the service and 1 know
a few wrinkles.' I do, too. He gave
me a five-dollar bill after he'd talked
awhile to me, and one of his own
cigars. ‘Remember the town’s hack
of you!' says he. "Pis, too. I'd a let
ter from the committee they got
there, asking if we had everything:
offering to pay for nurses if they'd
be allowed. Oh, it's a bully town!"
Spruce himself had never known
the sweets of local pride. He had
drifted about in the world, until at
twenty he drifted into the Regular
army. He had no kindred except a
brother whose career was so little
creditable that Spruce was relieved
when it ended—were the truth known,
in a penitentiary. He had an aunt of
whom lie often spoke and whom he
esteemed a credit to the family. She
was a widow woman in an lowa vil
luge, who kept a hoarding house for
railway men, and had reared a large
family, not one of whom (Spruce was
accustomed to explain in moments
of expansion, on pay day, when his
heart had been warmed with good red
liquor)—had ev*r been to Jail. Spruce
had never seen this estimable woman,
hut he felt on terms of intimacy with
her because, occasionally, on these
same pay days, he would mail her a
five-dollar bank-note, the receipt of
which was always promptly acknowl
edged by a niece who could spell most
of her words correctly and who al
ways thanked him for his "kind and
welcome gift." told him what they
proposed to do with the money, and
invited him to come to see tlicifl.
Meanwhile, his consciousness of in
some way earing for the whole com
pany held him a model of sobriety
In fact, he did take care of the com
pany, secretly Instructing the captain
in the delicacies of military etiquette
and primitive sanitary conditions,
and openly showing the commissary
sergeant how to make requisitions
any) barter his superfluous rations for
acceptable canned goods at the gro
ceries of the town. He explained all
the Regulars’ artless devices for be
ing comfortable; he mended the boys
morals and their blouses in the same
breath; and' he inculcated all the
regular traditions and superstitions.
Hat It Is to be confessed again, that
while Spruce was living laboriously
up to his lights of righteousness un
der this new stimulus, tho lights were
rather dim; and, In particular, as re
gards the duty of a man to pick up
outlying portable property for his com
pany—(hey would have shocked a po
lice magistrate Neither did lie rank
among the martial virtues the orna
ment of a meek and quiet spirit. “A
good captain is always a kicker,” says
Spruce firmly; “he’s got to be. Look
at this here camp. Captain; the mess
tent’s all under water; we’re standing
in the slush every damned meal we
eat. Water’s under our tent, water —”,
”1 know, I know, sergeant," inter*
rnpta (he perplexed and worried young;
captain, a clever young dandy bright;
enough to be willing to take wisdom;
without shoulder straps; ‘‘l’ve been 1
to the colonel: he agrees with me.,
v- ■ - <
and he’s been to Major Green, and
that’s all comes of It. I
what I can do further, If I did —"
“Begging your pardon. Captain, the,
men will be tailing sick soon and dy
ing. They’re weakened by tho climate
and being fretted, expecting always
to git off and never going."
“But what can 1 do? Oh, speak out,
we're off here alone. Have you any
Idea?”
“Well, sir, If you was my captain
In the old th, you'd say to the
colonel; ‘Colonel, I’ve remonstrated
and remonstrated. Now I’m desperate.
I'm desperate.' says you. Tf there
ain’t something done tomorrow I'm
going to march my company out and
dud a new camp, and you kin court
martial me if you please. I'd rather
stand a court-martial than see my
men die!’ He'd talk real pleasant at
first, so as to git In all his facts, and
then he’d blaze away. And he’d do it,
too, if they didn't listen."
The captain gave the sergeant a
keen glance. “And that’s your notion
of discipline?" said ho.
“There’s a newspaper fellow asking
for you, Captain, this morning. I see
him a-comlng now," was the sergeant's
oblique response. Hut he chuckled,
walking stiffly away: "HeTl do it; I
Let we won't he here two days long
er." For which glee there was rea
son, since. Inside the hour, the cap
tain was In the colonel’s tent, conclud
ing an eloquent picture of Ills com
pany's discomforts with “Somebody
litis to do something. If you are ikjw
erless, colonel, I’m not. If they don't
give some assurance of changing the
camp tomorrow I shall march Com
pany G out and pitch a camp myself,
and stand a court-martial. 1 would
rather risk a court-martial than see
my men die —and that's what it has
come to!"
The colonel looked the fiery young
speaker sternly in tho eye, and said
something about ttnsoldierly conduct.
“It would he unmanly conduct for
me to let the hoys trusted to me die,
because 1 was afraid to speak out,”
flung back the captain. "And I know
one thing: If I nm court-martialed
the papers are likely to get the true
story."
"You mean the reporter on the Chi
cagi) papers who is snooping around?
U>t mo advise you to give him a wide
berth.”
"I mean nothing of the kind, sir, 1
only mean that tho thing will not be
done in a corner."
"Well, well, keep cool, Captain,
you're too good a fellow to (ling your
self away. Wait and see if I can't gel
something definite out of the general
today."
Whereupon tho captain departed
with outward decent gloom and in
ward premonitions of rejoicing, for
when he had hit a nail on the head he
had eyes to see. And the colonel he
took himself, hot-foot, to the pompous
old soldier in charge of the camp, who
happened to ho a man of fixed belief
in himself, but, if he feared anything,
was afraid of a newspaper reporter
The colonel gave him thi. facts spar
ing no squalid detail; indeed, adding
a few picturesque embellishments
from his own observations. He cut
short the other's contemptuous critl
r-iein of hoy soldiers, and his com
parison with tho hardships endured
during the Civil war, with a curt "I
know they fooled away men's lives
then; that is no reason we should
fool them away now. The men are
sickening today—they will he dying
tomorrow; I’m desperate. If that camp
is not changed by tomorrow 1 shall
march my regiment out myself and
pitch my own camp, and you may
court-martial me for it If you like. 1
would rather stand a court-martial
than see my men die, because I was
afraid to speak out! The camp wo
have now is murder, as the reporters
My ! I don’t wonder that young fel
low from Chicago talks hanf?"
“You're excited, colonel; you forget
yourself.”
"I am excited, general; I'm desper
ate! Will you walk round the camp
with me?”
The end of the colloquy was that
the captain saw the general and the
colonel and told the first lieutenant,
who told the first sergeant, whoso
name was Spruce. “Captain’s kicked
to the colonel, I guess,” says Spruce,
“and colonel's kicked to the general.
That’s the talk. Git ready, boys, and
pack.” True enough, the camp was
moved the very next day.
“I guess captain will make an offi
cer if he lives and don't git the big
head.” Spruce moralized, "It’s mighty
prevalent in the volunteers.”
The captain wrote the whole ac
count home to one single confidant —
his father —and him he swore to se
crecy. The captain’s father was the
man who had committed Company O
to Spruce’s good offices. He sent a
check to the company and a special
box of cigars to Spruce. And Spruce,
knowing nothing of the Intermediary,
felt a more brilliant pride In his adopt
ed town, and bragged of its virtues
more vehemently than ever. The
camp was not moved soon enough.
Pneumonia and typhoid fever a|v
peared. One by one the hoys of the
regiment sickened. Presently one by
one they began to die.
Then Spruce suggested to the cap
tain; "I guess I’d be more good In
the hospital than I am here. Cap
tain.” And the captain (who was
scared, poor lad, and had visions of
the boys’ mothers demanding the
wasted lives of their sons at his
hands) had his best sergeant put on
the sick detail. If Spruce had been
useful In camp he was Invaluable In
hospital. The head surgeon leaned on
him, with a jest, and the young sur
geon in charge with pretense of
abuse.
“Captain’s going to distinguish him
self, give him a chance,” thought
Spruce, ‘‘he’s got sense!”
And by degreea he began to feel for
the young volunteer a reflection olj
the worship which had secretly been
offered to a certain fat little bald
headed captain of the old —steenth.
His picture of the great day when he
should have his triumph—quite as
dear to him, perhaps, as any Roman
general's to the Roman —now always
included a vision of the captain, slen
der and straight and bright-eyed, at
the head of the liiqj; and be always
could see the captain, later In the
day, presenting him to his father:
"Here’s Sergeant Spruce, who has
coached us all!” He had overheard
those very words once said to a girl
visiting the camp, and they clung to
his memory with the persistent sweet
ness of the odor of violets.
Today he was thinking much more
of the captain than of young Dan
vers, though Danvers ranked next In
his good will. Danvers was a college
lad who had bogged and blustered his
mother inlo letting him go. He would
not let her know how 111 ho was, but
hud the captain write to his married
sister, in the same town but not. the
same house. She, In sore perplexity,
wrote to both the captain and Spruce
and kept her trunk packed, expecting
a telegram. Danvers used to talk of
her and of his mother and of his lit
tle nephews and nieces to Spruce, at
lirst In mere broken sentences —this
was when he was so ill they expected
that he might die any day—later In
little happy snatches of reminiscence.
Ht> was perfectly aware that he owed
his life to Spruce’s nursing; and he
gave Spruce the same admiration
which he had used to give the great
man who commanded the university
football team.
Sprnce’s heart, a simple and tender
affair, as a soldier's is. oftener than
people know, swelled within him, not
for the first time
“Well. I guess I done right to come
here," thought he. "and 1 guess all
the G boys will be out of the woods
this week, and then 1 don't care how
soon we git our orders."
Danvers stopped him when he re
turned. "1 want to speak to you,
Chris," he next said, and a new note
In his voice turned Spruce about ah
ruptly.
"What’s the matter, Dick?"
"Oh, nothing. I only wanted to ho
sure you’d come back and say good-by
before you got off. The regiment's
■got its orders, you know?"
"No;" cried Spruce. He swallowed
a little gasp, “What are you giving
me?"
"Oh, It's straight; I heard them talk
ing. Colonel has the order; the boys
are packing today."
Spnu e's -yt*s burned, he was mind
ed to make some exclamations of pro
fane Joy, but his mood fell at the
sight of tile boy’s quivering smile.
"Great, isn't it?” said Danvers. "1
wislt they’d waited two weeks and
given us fellows a show, hut I dare
say there won't he any show by that
time the way they are after the dona
at Santiago. Can’t you get off now. to
jack? Hut—you'll ho sure to come
hack and say good-by, Chris!”
"I ain’t off yet,” said Spruce, "and
I ain't too sure 1 will he. They're al
ways gifting orders and making an
everlasting hustle to pack up. and
then unpacking, You go to sleep."
He was about to move away, but
Danvers detained him, saying that he
wanted to he turned; and as the sol
dier gently turned him, the boy got
one of In's hands and gave It a squeeze
He tried to say something, but was
barely able to give Spruce a foolish
smile. "Spruce, you're a soldier and
a gentleman!" he stammered. He
turned away his head to hide the
tears in his eyes. But Spruce had
seen them. Of course ho made no
sign, stepping away briskly, with a
little pat on the lean shoulder.
He came back softly in a little
while. Ho looked at Danvers, who
was simulating sleep, with his dark
lashes (alien over red eyelids, and he
shook his head. During his absence
he hud found that the orders were no
rumor. The regiment was going to
Porto Rico sure enough. Spruce stood
it moment, before he sat down by
Danvers’ side. But he barely was
seated ere he was on his feet again,
in a nervous irritation which none had
ever seen in Spruce. He walked to
the door of the tent and gazed, in the
same attitude that the nurse had
gazed, an earlier, at the low.
white streets.
“Them hoys’ll b© all broke up If I
go!" said Spruce.
He frowned and fidgeted. In fact,
he displayed every symptom of a man
struggling with a fit of furious tem
per. What really was buffeting
Spruce’s soul was not, however, anger,
it was the temptation of his life.
The boys needed him. Hut if he stay
ed with the boys, there was the regi
ment and the company and the cap
tain and the chance to distinguish
himself >w>d march hack In glory to
his town.
“I guess moat folks would say I'd
ought to follow the colors," he
thought; “raw fellers like them, they
need a steady, old hand. Well, they've
got Hates.” (Hates was an old Regu
lar, also, of less enterprising genius
than Spruce, but an admirable sol
dier.) “I s'pose,”—grudgingly—“that
Hates would keep ’em steady. And
captain can fight, and the colonel
was a West Point man, though he’s
been out of the army ten years, fool
ing with Hie intllsh. I guess they don't
need me so awful bad this week; and
these 'ere boys—Oh, damn it all!” He
walked out of the tent. There was a
little group about a wagon, at which
he frowned and sighed. "Poor Max
well!” he said. Then he tossed his
head and stamped his foot. “Oh.
damn it all!" said he again, between
his teeth.
Hut his face and manner were back
on their old level of good cheer when
he bent over Dauvors, half au Lour
later.
”Sa—y! Dick!”
"Yes, Chris. You come to say good
by! Well, It's good luck to you and
God bless you from every boy here;
and we know what you've done for
us, and wo won’t forget It; and we’l)
all burry up to get well and join you!"
Danvers' vole© was steady enough
now and a pathetic effort at a cheer
came from all the cols.
Spruce lifted his fist and shook it
severely. “You shut up! All of you!
You’ll raise temperature! 1
ain't going, neither. Be quiet. It’s
all settled. I've seen captain, and he
wants me to stay and see you boys
through; all the Q boys. Then we're
all going together. I tell you, keep
quiet.”
Dick Danvers was keeping quiet
enough, for one; he was wiping away
the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
The others in general shared his
relief in greater or less measure; but
(hey were too 111 to think much about
anything except themselves. In some
way, however, every one In the tent
showed to Spruce that he felt that a
sacrifice had been made.
“1 know you hated it like the devil,
and just stayed for fear some of your
precious chickens would come to mis
chief If they got from under your
wings, you old hen!” was Dick’s trib
ute; “and I know why you went into
town yesterday when the boys went
off. It is rough, Chris, and that's the
truth.
"Oh It's only putting things off a
bit; the captain told me so himself,"
said Spruce, very light and airy. Hut
his heart was sore. The G boys un
derstood; he wasn’t so sure that all
the others did understand. He caught
his name on one gossiping group’s
lilts, and was conscious that they
gazed after him curiously. “Wonder
If I'm scared that I stayed home, I
guess," lie muttered, being a sensitive
fellow like all vain men. “I wish
they'd see the things I’ve been In!
Damn ’em!”
The men really were discussing his
various Indian experiences and admlr
Ing him in their boyish hearts. Hut
he wa ■ unluckily out of earshot.
By tills time the town was not only
his town, hut he was sure that he was
a figure In the conversation of the
place. Thus his anxiety of mind in
creased daily. He kept it from Ids
charges, who grew stronger all tDo
week, and the next; and he read such
papers ns drifted out to the canw> and
such shreds of news about the fighting
with frantic interest. Danvers was
able to sit up at. the end of the three
weeks, hut most of the hoys were fur
ther along, walking about the wards,
! or gone back to their regiment.
"You get out, Chris,” said Danvers
"we all know you're on your head
with aching to go. We're all right;
and I'm off home on furlough tomor
; row; I'll get straightened out there
I quicker, and I’ll be after you next
week, see if I dont! 1 knew you’d
lie hanging on, so I won't give you
the excuse. My _sister's coming
tomorrow."
"Really. Dick," gasped Spruce, "ami
you—you’re sure the other hoys are
so's I can leave?"
“Well, you know there are going to
1 be some women from the Red Cross
last of the week—Oh, by the time we
are all out of it, this will be a swell
hospital, with all the luxuries!
Spruce, go, and don't get li*irt, or
I'll murder you!”
Spruce giggled like a happy girl.
He was on his way to put in his ap
plication to join his regiment, the next
day—after Dick Danvers’ sister had
arrived, when something happened.
He did not exactly know what it was
himself, until he felt the water on his
forehead and tried to lift himself up
from the sand, catching the arm of
(he surgeon-in-chief. ‘‘Sunstroke,
doctor?" he whispered.
“Just fainted,” the surgeon answered
cheerfully, “you’ve been overdoing it
in this heat. He careful.”
"Oh, it’s nothing, sir,” Spruce
grinned back; ‘‘had It lots of times,
only not so bad. All the boys git
giddy heads—”
Somehow the ready words faltered
off his tongue; the surgeon had been
fumbling at his blouse, under the pre
text of opening it for air, he was look
ing in a queer, intent way at Spruce's
chest.
Of a sudden the eyes of doctor and
soldier, who had been nurse, met and
challenged each other. There was a
dumb terror In the soldier's eyes, a
grave pity in the surgeon’s. “I seen
them -spots yesterday,” said Spruce,
slowly, in a toneless voice, ‘‘but I
wouldn’t believe they was typhoid
spots, nor they ain't!”
"You get Inside and get a drink.
Spruce, and go to bed," said the doc
tor. “Of course, I’m not certain, but
as good a nurse as you know that Is
isn’t safe to try to bluff typhoid
fever.”
Hy this time Spruce was on his feet,
able to salute with his reply: “That’s
all right Major, but —I got to keep
up till Danvers gits off with bis folks,
or he’d be kicking and want to stay,
lest let me see him off, and I’ll go
straight to bed.”
“No walking about, mind, though,”
said the doctor, not well pleased, yet
knowing enough of the two men to
perceive the point of the argument.
Spruce saw Danvers off, with a joke
and a grin, and an awkward bow for
Danvers’ sister. Then he went hack
to the hospital and went to bed, hav
ing written his aunt’s address on a
prescription pad (on© of his acquire
ments In his foraging trips) with a
remarkably spelled request that his
pay he sent her, and his other proper
ty be given his friend, R. E. Danvers,
to divide among his friends, giving
the captain first choice.
"Lots of folks die of typhoid fever,”
he remarked quite easily, “and It don’t
hurt to be ready. I feel like I was In
for a bad time, and I ain’t stuck on
(|m nursing here h little hit”
Terms SI.OO in Advance.
NO.-49. \ V
Before the week was out he recog
nized as well as the doctors that lie
was a very sick man.
“If you'd only gone off with your
regiment three weeks ago,” the doctor
growled one day, "you’d have missed
this, Spruce.”
"That's all right.” said Spruce, “but,
some of the hoys are home that,
wouldn’t he, maybe. 1 guess it’s all
right. Only, you know captain and
Danvers; I wish you’d write back to
.lie old town and tell the committee
I done my duty. I can’t he a credit
to the company, but I done my duty,
though I expect there’s folks in town
may think I was malingering.”
“Stop talking!” commanded the doc
tor. "Did you know the women are
coining tomorrow; you are to have a
nurse of your own here?”
“Time,” said Spruce; “if my town
had its way they'd been hero long ago.
ICver been in my town, major?”
“No, Good-hy, Spruce; keep quiet ”
“It's the bulliest town in the coun
try, and the prettiest. And when G
company goes back—Oh, Lord, 1 won’t
be with ’em!”
When the nurse came he was so
light-headed as to have no control of
bis words, yet quite able to recognize
tier and welcome her with an apolo
getic politeness.
"I'd have had some lemonade for
you if I’d been up myself, ma'am.
We’re glad to see you. All the G boys
are convalescing; most of ’em’s gone.
We ail come from Ihe same city; it's
an awful pretty town. I got a lot
of friends there that maybe don’t take
it in why I’m hero ’stead of with my
regiment, with (lie old man. I got a
good reason; only I can’t remember
it now.”
The captain’s holier stood outside
the telegraph office in Spruce's town.
Beside him was the chairman of the
relief committee.
'Too bad about that Regular," said
the chairman. "Spruce—isn't that his
name? One of the boys telegraphed
lie couldn't live through die day. Bet
tor have him brought here for the fu
neral, I guess; lie's hee>n very faithful.
Young Danvers wanted to go right
down to Florida; but. he had a re
lapse after lie got home and he’s flat
on his back "
"I heard," said the captain’s fa
ther; "I’ve just, telegraphed, on my
own responsibility, for them to send
Inin here, it won’t make any differ
ence to him, poor follow; but we owe
it (o him. I wish we could do some
thing that would help him, but 1 don’t
see anything."
"We have told them to spare no ex
pense. and lie’s got plenty of money.
No. you have dene everything Well,
good-by; remember me to the cap
tain; we're all proud of him.”
Tlie captain's father thanked him
with rather an alisent air. “I wisli we
could do something for that fellow,"
he was flunking; “T don't suppose a
message to him would —-when a fel
low's dying, messages are nonsense—
it's a bit of sentiment —1 don't care,
i'll do itl" He turned and went back
into (lie office.
“I am afraid there is not a chance.”
said the doctor; “too bad, he was a
good fellow. Well, you can give him
all tlie morphine he needs —and strych
nine, though he’s past strychnine, I
fear; morphine's the one chance, ami
that's mighty little.”
"He talked about wanting to seo
you,” said tlie nurse. She had
sweet voice, plainly a lady’s voice;
and her slim figure, in the blue
striped gown and white surplice, had
a lady’s grace. Her face was not
handsome, nor was it very young, but
It had a touch of her voice's sweet
ness. The doctor found himself glad
to look at her; and forgetting his pa
tients tn his interest in the nurse.
“Oh, yes,”—he roused himself —“I'll
look 'round later; I suppose he is de
lirious?”
"Not so much that he does not rec
ognize us. He talks all the time of
his town, poor fellow, and seems to
want to have them understand chat
he hasn’t neglected his duty. Ho only
once has spoken of any relations. It's
all the town, and the captain and
Danvers making it right there; and
the boys going back—l suppose he
has lived there ail his life and "
“Not a bit of it; Danvers told me
he merely enlisted from there. But
they are making a great time over
him. Telegraphed to have liis body
sent there; and here's another tele
gram. See —”
“I'll let him see,” said the nurse,
taking it, “may I, doctor?”
"Yes, but not the first part about,
sending him back; that’s a little too
previous.”
The nurse’s touch roused Spruce.
“Dick,” he murmured, “Dick, you tell
the folks. I couldn’t go with the regi
ment —you know why.”
“They know why, too; here’s a tele
gram from your captain’s father: ‘Tell
Spruce he’s the hero of Company G.’ ”
"Read it again!”
She read it. His hand tightened
on hers. Her trained eyes were on
his face.
“Ain’t it the —the bulliest town! I
wisht I'd enough money to go back;
but you see ray folks got to havo my
pay. But 1 wisht —”
Her eyes, not the nurse's now, but
a woman’s, sought the doctor s in a
glance of question and appeal. He
nodded.
Her sweet voice said: “And tlie
town has telegraphed that no expense!
must he spared to cure you; hut if
you don’t recover you are to go back
to them.”
Spruce drew a long, ecstatic sigh.
“Oh —didn’t 1 tell you? Ain't m
bulliest town!”
A minute later ho m ..nr-’ ■
“Thank you, Dirk,” nr-' ' ;-i
the nurse’s ban 1 j
bis town.