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Page 34
It was a beautiful world, this world outside of the iron bars. Every
one in it contributed to his pleasure and to his comfort. In this
world he was not starved nor man-handled. He thought of this joyfully
as he leaped up the stairs, where young men with grave faces and with
their hands held negligently behind their backs bowed to him in polite
surprise at his speed. But they had not been starved on condensed
milk. He threw his coat and hat at one of them, and came down the hall
fearfully and quite weak with dread lest it should not be real. His
voice was shaking when he asked Ellis if he had reserved a table. The
place was all so real, it must be true this time. The way Ellis turned
and ran his finger down the list showed it was real, because Ellis
always did that, even when he knew there would not be an empty table
for an hour. The room was crowded with beautiful women; under the
light of the red shades they looked kind and approachable, and there
was food on every table, and iced drinks in silver buckets. It was
with the joy of great relief that he heard Ellis say to his underling,
"Num�ro cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert." It was real at last.
Outside, the Thames lay a great gray shadow. The lights of the
Embankment flashed and twinkled across it, the tower of the House of
Commons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the waiter was
hurrying toward him carrying a smoking plate of rich soup with a
pungent, intoxicating odor.
And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, the immovable peaks, and
the white surf stood again before him. The iron rails swept up and
sank again, the fever sucked at his bones, and the pillow scorched his
cheek.
One morning for a brief moment he came back to real life again and lay
quite still, seeing everything about him with clear eyes and for the
first time, as though he had but just that instant been lifted over
the ship's side. His keeper, glancing up, found the prisoner's eyes
considering him curiously, and recognized the change. The instinct of
discipline brought him to his feet with his fingers at his sides.
"Is the Lieutenant feeling better?"
The Lieutenant surveyed him gravely.
"You are one of our hospital stewards."
"Yes, Lieutenant."
"Why ar'n't you with the regiment?"
"I was wounded, too, sir. I got it same time you did, Lieutenant."
"Am I wounded? Of course, I remember. Is this a hospital ship?"
The steward shrugged his shoulders. "She's one of the transports. They
have turned her over to the fever cases."
The Lieutenant opened his lips to ask another question; but his own
body answered that one, and for a moment he lay silent.
"Do they know up North that I--that I'm all right?"
"Oh, yes, the papers had it in--there was pictures of the Lieutenant
in some of them."
"Then I've been ill some time?"
"Oh, about eight days."
The soldier moved uneasily, and the nurse in him became uppermost.
"I guess the Lieutenant hadn't better talk any more," he said. It was
his voice now which held authority.
The Lieutenant looked out at the palms and the silent gloomy mountains
and the empty coast-line, where the same wave was rising and falling
with weary persistence.
"Eight days," he said. His eyes shut quickly, as though with a sudden
touch of pain. He turned his head and sought for the figure at the
foot of the cot. Already the figure had grown faint and was receding
and swaying.
"Has any one written or cabled?" the Lieutenant spoke, hurriedly. He
was fearful lest the figure should disappear altogether before he
could obtain his answer. "Has any one come?"
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