Hamilton was sitting at the window, his favorite position, watching the
stream of people on the street below. He had walked up and down the
room for perhaps five minutes--the first time in months--and was now
resting. Little pains, like needles, were running up his limbs. His
wound had entirely healed, leaving only a long, livid scar. Hamilton
called the wound his barometer. He could foretell any change in the
weather accurately by the twinges it gave him. At present it indicated
“clear weather.”
Hamilton had begun to doze away in the warm sunshine, when he heard a
thumping of crutches down the corridor. He turned around.
“If it isn’t old Ham himself!” cried the man on crutches.
“Bill McCall!” Hamilton was on his feet. “Where’d you come from?”
The next moment they were shaking hands and looking into each other’s
eyes. Hamilton retained his grasp.
“I want to thank you, Bill, I want to tell you how grateful I am for
what you’ve done,” Hamilton began, his throat choking. “I don’t know
what to say; but I’ll always feel indebted to you for my--life.”
“Oh, stow it,” cut in McCall. “It was no more than any one else would
have done under the circumstances.” McCall slid into a chair, one leg
held gingerly out and deposited the crutches on the floor. Hamilton
resumed his seat. “As a matter of fact, the men you really owe your
life to are Williams--”
“The nigger? Yes, I suppose so.”
“And Dr. Levin.”
“Dr. Levin? Who’s he?”
“He’s your surgeon. Don’t you know him? Black-haired fellow, blue eyes,
little stoop-shouldered. Comes here every day. Got a lot of other
wards, too. Isn’t he still handling your case?”
“Oh, the doctor, sure. I didn’t know his name, though. Levin? Jewish
name, isn’t it?”
“Must be. Anyway it was Dr. Levin who really saved your life. Williams
and I simply brought your body back. But you were hanging by a hair. It
was Dr. Levin who pulled you through.
“Don’t you remember reading about Dr. Levin joining the service--giving
up his big practice and all that--about the time we left for training
camp. I remember it because I wrote it.”
“It isn’t _that_ Dr. Levin, is it?”
“Yes, the big surgeon.”
“But he looks so confoundedly young and unassuming.”
“Well, he is young. Just a little over the draft age. I remember
covering the story at the time. Bob, you don’t know what fine medical
care we’re getting in this man’s army. This specialist has made you a
nice new rib out of silver and spliced the pieces of bone together to
the plate, or bar, or something, so that the bone would form over it
again. What’s the matter, old man, you’re trembling. Here, take this
pill. I’ve got plenty.
“Now you’ve got a tin rib to match my aluminum shin and my
nickel-plated skull.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at this leg.”
McCall pulled up the leg of his pajama and revealed a narrow, almost
imperceptible scar.
“Feel it. Oh, it won’t bite you. A neat job. Now run your finger over
my skull here. That’s some more of Levin’s work.”
“But it’s right next to the eye, that dent there.”
“Sure.”
“But you couldn’t have been hit there without losing your sight. The
shell would have cut your optic nerve.”
“Well?”
Hamilton stared at McCall. “Well? You don’t mean to tell me, Bill--not
your eye.”
McCall shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, one eye’s enough, anyway. I can see everything as well--Here,
nurse, orderly!” His voice rang out. “He’s fainted.”
But Meadows had already seen Bob’s head fall forward against McCall’s
knee, and the next minute Hamilton was back in bed.
“Just a slight relapse,” smiled Meadows. “They get that way when
they’re not used to walking. Come in again when he’s a little
stronger.”