The ward-master returned presently, threading his way through a
mass of parked ambulances to the shed where Berkley sat on a broken
cracker box.
"Colonel Arran is very low. I guess you'd better not bother him
to-night."
"Is he--mortally hurt?"
"I've seen worse."
"He may get well?"
"I've seen 'em get well," said the non-committal ward-master.
Then, looking Berkley over: "You're pretty dirty, ain't you? Are
you--" he raised his eyebrows significantly.
"I'm clean," said Berkley with the indifference habituated to filth.
"All right. They'll fix you up a cot somewhere. If Colonel Arran
comes out all right I'll call you. He's full of opium now."
"Did they get the bullet?"
"Oh, yes. I ain't a surgeon, my friend, but I hear a lot of
surgeon talk. It's the shock--in a man of his age. The wound's
clean, so far--not a thread in it, I hear. Shock--and
gangrene--that's what we look out for. . . . What's the news down
by the river?"
"I don't know," said Berkley.
"Don't you know if you got licked?"
"I don't think we did. You'd hear the firing out here much
plainer."
"You're the 8th Cavalry, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"They say you got cut up."
"Some.
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