"Gee!" said Grierson.
Thereafter there was silence in the fever-tent, save for the noise made
by a man over in a corner--a kind of man always found in an American
crowd--a heroic, implacable comedian and patriot, of a humour that has
bitterness and ferocity and love in it, and he was wringing from the
situation a grim meaning by singing the "Star-Spangled Banner" with all
the ardour which could be procured from his fever-stricken body.
"Billie," called Martin in a low voice, "where's Jimmy Nolan?"
"He's dead," said Grierson.
A triangle of raw gold light shone on a side of the tent. Somewhere in
the valley an engine's bell was ringing, and it sounded of peace and
home as if it hung on a cow's neck.
"And where's Ike Watkins?"
"Well, he ain't dead, but he got shot through the lungs. They say he
ain't got much show."
Through the clouded odours of sickness and medicine rang the dauntless
voice of the man in the corner.