“You tell us what you think of it, Jock."
The soldier grinned. Evidently he progressed, and forecasted a sound escape. He moved his bandaged limbs to show us how beautifully the machinery responded.
"And it doesna hurt much," he said, " and a man can move about a little and go twist like on his side. Watch, sirs."
He did it—a trick as difficult, doubtless, as a contortionist's masterpiece, and conquered with heaven knows what agony secreted behind the features suddenly stripped of their grin.
Certainly one should be grateful for that much. When one has suffered for eight months it must be pleasant to move a little and to go twist like on one's side.
But across the aisle was slung one of those tragic stumps, and the face beyond it was sunken and feverish, and the eyes could not conceal a despairing restlessness.
The surgeon spoke to the man gently, asking him how it went.
"A good deal of fever," the mutilated fellow answered dully," but all right, I guess."
It became clear that he didn't care, that for him the future held no energetic lure. The horrible stump of scarcely healed flesh quivered in the sling. His eyes closed. We didn't want to
