West Wind Drift. George Barr McCutcheon

those other men who were burned. I—”

      “It's nothing, I tell you,” he interrupted, almost roughly. “There are dozens of men worse off than I am, and are they in bed? Not much. This is no time to lie down, Miss Clinton, if you've got a leg to stand on. See that little chap over there with his head and hands covered with bandages,—and barely able to drag his feet after him? He's an American jockey. I don't know his name. He was blown twenty or thirty feet across the after-deck. Brought up at the bottom of a companion-way. He's nothing but cuts and bruises from head to foot. But he's around on his wobbly little pins today, just the same, trying to edge in on some sort of a job. Couldn't keep him in bed.”

      Miss Clinton's eyes were full of wonder and incredulity. “I cannot understand it,” she said. “My cousin was with the American Ambulance in France. He says that the slightest flesh wound sends a soldier to the hospital.”

      “They haven't any choice in the matter. Besides, it isn't the same. Poor devils, they may have been at it in the trenches for weeks and months. A wound of any sort means a pleasant vacation. Still,” he went on after a moment, a faint derisive smile on his lips, “we had a big husky up in Camp who insisted on going to bed every time he had the nosebleed.”

      She was looking into his blood-shot eyes, infinite pity and concern in her own.

      “Will you let me dress your hands, Mr. Percival, whenever it is necessary? I am getting used to it now.”

      “It's good of you, Miss Clinton,” he replied gratefully. “But I think you'd better stick to the fellows who really need attention. Don't add an extra ounce to your burden. You'll need all of your strength and courage to face the demands of the next few days. Those chaps have just begun to suffer. They're going to have a tight squeeze getting through,—if they get through at all. You have not answered my question. Is there anything I can do for you or your aunt?”

      “No,—not a thing,” she said. “We are quite all right. As Mr. Mott said, we are all in the same boat, Mr. Percival. We've got to make up our minds to that. We can't have the comforts and the luxuries we had day before yesterday. Whatever is left of them, we must share with others.”

      “Even with stowaways,” he ventured, but not fatuously.

      “No one is likely to forget how our only stowaway came by his wounds,” she said simply. “Despite your modesty, I am quite certain who it was that carried the Chief Engineer on deck, Mr. Percival. While his clothes were burning, too.”

      Percival turned his face away and many seconds passed before he spoke.

      “By the way,” he said at last, a trifle unsteadily, “at regular intervals the gun up there in the bow is to be fired. You must not be alarmed when it goes off. There is a chance that some ship may hear the report. The British have a few warships down here, you know. They would investigate if they got word of big guns being fired anywhere in these parts. Mr. Mott will give warning when the gun is to be fired, so that every one will understand. I—I just thought I'd tell you.”

      “Thank you. Good-bye for the present. I must get back to my wounded.”

      “Keep your spirits up,” he said. “That's the principal job now, Miss Clinton. Good-bye,—and thank you.”

      He watched her as she moved off down the deck. He could not help noticing that her figure drooped perceptibly. In his mind's eye he saw her as she was but two days before, straight, graceful, full of the joy of living, with a stride that was free and swinging. He recalled her lovely, inquiring grey eyes as she stared at him on that ignominious afternoon, the parted red lips and the smile that came to them, the smartly dressed hair, the jaunty hat, the trim sport suit of tan-coloured jersey—he recalled the alluring picture she made that day, and sadly shook his head.

      “Poor girl,” he said to himself, and walked slowly in the opposite direction, favouring his left leg.

      He went down to see the Captain. The old seadog was stretched out in his berth, a look of pain and utter despair in his eyes. One of the Russian dancers, a rather pretty girl of a distinctly Slavic type, was cleaning up the room. The ship's doctor had just left.

      “Feeling a bit more comfortable, sir?” inquired the young man.

      “I wish you'd get this girl out of here,” growled Captain Trigger with difficulty. “I want to swear.”

      “I think it would be all right to go ahead with it, sir,” said Percival. “She doesn't understand a word of English.”

      The Captain shook his head. “I'll let it wait.” Then, looking at his visitor's bandaged hands: “How are your hands, my lad?”

      “Fairly easy. The doctor says the burns are not deep. Mr. Mott asked me to step in and see you, sir, and give you my opinion as to the bombs. You see, I've had a great deal of experience with high explosives. There isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that you found and got rid of the worst of them. The officer in charge of the gun-crew agrees with me. They planted the big ones, the ones that were to destroy the ship, down in the hold, where there was less chance of discovery. The others, I am convinced, were much smaller. It would have been impossible to hide a bomb of any noticeable size in any of the places where the explosions occurred. They went about it very cunningly, very systematically. Of course, no one saw the bombs that exploded, but judging by the actual results, they could not have been very powerful.”

      “And I also,” said the Captain, “thank God we dug out the big ones.” He scowled forlornly. “Dr. Cullen says I am in for a week of this, Percival. You don't think so, do you?”

      Percival smiled. “I am more or less of an expert on explosives, sir,” he replied.

      “Umph,” grunted Captain Trigger. “I see. Just the same, I think I'll be up and about by tomorrow. If I were your age, young man, you can bet I wouldn't be lying here in this bed.”

      “On the other hand, if I were your age, Captain Trigger,” said Percival, “I'd probably have sense enough to do exactly what the doctor ordered.”

      Captain Trigger's mouth fell open.

      “Well, of all the damned—” he began, and then swallowed hard.