"I stumbled, Mark, I stumbled," he whispered, as I leaned over him.
"The fox came and I ran for it--then I fell--and then the little hound
came, and then----"
Mary was bathing his forehead, and for the first time he saw her.
"I stumbled, Mary," he whispered. "I swear it."
* * * * * *
It was nearly ten o'clock when I left Weston's room. The doctor was
with him and was preparing to bivouac at the patient's side. He was a
young man from the big valley. Luther Warden had driven to the county
town and brought him back to us. The first misgivings I had when I
caught sight of his youthful, beardless face were dispelled by the
business-like way in which he went about his work. He had been in a
volunteer regiment, he told me, as an assistant surgeon, but had never
gone past the fever camps, as this was his first case of a gunshot
wound. He had made a study of gunshot wounds, and deemed himself
fortunate to be in when Mr. Warden called. Truly, said I to myself,
one man's death is another man's practice.
Pages:
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206