Cairns started to say something about this, but the words didn’t come quickly enough, and Bedient went on: 

“There is a picture of that day which always means war to me.  The soldier was hit mortally just as I got to him, but didn’t fall at once, as one does when the spine or brain is touched.  As my hands went out to him, he got it again and lost his legs, as if they were shot from under.  His body, you see, fell the length of his legs.  This second bullet was a Remington slug that shattered his hip.  He had a full canteen strung over his shoulder, infantry fashion.  The bullet that dropped him sitting on the trail, had gone through this to his hip.  The canteen was spurting water.  Mind you, it was the other wound that was killing him.  There he sat dying on the road.  I felt like dying for him—­felt that I couldn’t bear it if it took long.  He was in my arms—­and the canteen was emptying itself through the bullet-holes.  Then he seemed to hear the water flopping out on the sand, and wriggled around to look at his hip, and I heard him mutter thickly:  ’Look—­look at the b-bl-blood run!’”

Cairns felt that his companion suffered in this telling—­that behind the dark, the face close to his was deadly pale.  He couldn’t quite understand the depths of Bedient’s horror.  It was war.  All America was behind it.  One boy can’t stand up against his nation.  It was all very queer.  He felt that Bedient had a crystal gameness, but here was the sensitiveness of a girl.  Cairns thought of the heroes he had read of who were brave as a lion and gentle as a woman, and these memories helped him now to grasp his companion’s point of view....  Hesitating, Bedient finished: 

“You know, to me all else was hushed when I felt that boy in my arms.  It was like a shouting and laughing suddenly ceased—­as when a company of boys discover that one of their playmates is terribly hurt....  I imagine it would be like that—­the sudden silence and sickness.  It was all so unnecessary.  And that boy’s mother—­he should have been in her arms, not mine.  Poor little chap, he was all pimpled from beans, which are poison to some people.  He shouldn’t have been hurt like that....  There was another who had needed but one shot.  The Remington had gone into his throat in front the size of a lead-pencil—­and come out behind like a tea-cup.  The natives had filed the tip of the lead, so that it accumulated destruction in the ugly way.  It was like some one putting a stone in a snow-ball—­so vicious.  You can’t blame the natives—­but the war-game——­”

Boss Healy growled at them to go to sleep.

* * * * *