"No," the doctor said gravely. "I can't give it you yet. By-and-bye,
perhaps----"
"By-and-bye!" There was a dreadful sound like laughter in the husky
voice.
The doctor laid a restraining hand on the man's chest.
"Hush!" he said, in a lower tone. "It's this sort of thing that shows
what a fellow is made of. All these other poor chaps are children. But
you, Ford, you are grown up, so to speak. I look to you to help me,--to
set the example."
"Example! Man alive!" A queer light danced like a mocking spirit in
Private Ford's eyes, and again he laughed--an exceeding bitter laugh.
"I've been made an example of all my life," he said. "I've sometimes
thought it was what I was created for. Ah, thanks!" he added in a
different tone, as the doctor raised him on the extra pillow. "You're a
brick, sir! Sit down a minute, will you? I want to talk to you."
The doctor complied, his hand on the wounded man's wrist.
"That's better," Ford said. "Keep it there. And stop me if I rave. It's
a queer little world, isn't it? I remember you well, but you wouldn't
know me. You were one of the highfliers, and I was always more or less
of an earthworm. But you'll remember Rotherby, the captain of the first
eleven? A fine chap--that. He's dead now, eh?"
"Yes," the doctor said, "Rotherby's dead."
He was looking with an intent scrutiny at the scarred and bandaged face
on the pillow.
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