Page:Augusta Seaman--Jacqueline of the carrier pigeons.djvu/95

Rh thronged the doorways, many gnawing on dry unsightly bones from which the last vestige of meat had long since disappeared. Sick babies wailed fretfully, white, haggard men and women strove in vain to comfort  them. And here and there lay stretched on an improvised cot the form of some person  desperately ill, moaning piteously. Jacqueline contrasted the scene with these same comfortable, happy people of a few months  before and her heart grew rebellious at the  mighty suffering entailed in just the little  word “war.” “Is there no help,—no help  for it?” she asked herself.

Jan Van Buskirk was worse, unquestionably worse than when she had visited him before, and his condition alarmed her seriously. He was tossing from side to side, rolling his head feverishly, and muttering incoherent  words; nor did he seem in the least to recognize his little friend. Jacqueline quietly determined that it was high time he had more expert medical advice than she could offer,