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 together as though seeking mutual courage. Their nostrils quivered to a combined odor of ether and iodoform—an odor that, once inhaled, is forever afterwards known as the hospital smell. Nurses in crisp, starched uniforms swished past them on noiseless feet. An attendant wheeled a stretcher bed down a corridor. They looked about them with apprehensive attention and kept at Dr. Elman's heels, up to the second floor and into a room.

"Hello, Bill," said the doctor; and now, all at once, his voice was gentle as a woman's.

A head moved on a pillow. Tired eyes lighted with a spark of interest.

"Hello, fellows," said a wan voice.

So this was Bill—this white, pinched face. Bert stared at the bed in fearsome fascination. The coverlet showed the outline of one full leg, and another outline that ended with awful suddenness.

"Come," said Dr. Elman; "let Bill get a good look at you. Sit down."

"Better not do it, Dolf," Bill said with just a trace of the old drawl. "You'll burst something sure."

Dolf grinned sheepishly. Bert felt the doctor's elbow in his ribs, saw the man's exasperated frown, and tore his eyes away from the bed and its mute story.

The conversation ran in spurts. Bill did not