“No—­hit in both arms—­why the deuce can’t I walk?”

“Shock, I suppose.”

A half hour later he was in a hospital tent and a grim old army surgeon handling his arms.  “Right arm flesh-wound—­left elbow smashed.  You will likely have to lose the arm.”

“No, I won’t,” said Penhallow, “I’d as leave die.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.  They all say that.  See you again.”

“You will get ten dollars,” said John to a hospital orderly, “if you will find Captain Blake of General Wright’s staff.”

“I’ll do it, sir.”

Presently his arms having been dressed, he was made comfortable with morphia.  At dusk next morning his friend Blake sat down beside his cot.  “Are you badly hurt?” he said.  A certain tenderness in the voice was like a revelation of some qualities unknown before.

“I do not know.  For about the first time in my life I am suffering pain—­I mean constant pain, with a devilish variety in it too.  The same ball, I believe, went through some muscle in the right arm and smashed my left elbow.  It’s a queer experience.  The surgeon-in-charge informed me that I would probably lose the arm.  The younger surgeon says the ball will become what he calls encysted.  They probed and couldn’t find it.  Isn’t that Josiah I hear?”

“Yes, I will bring him in.”

In a moment they came back.  “My God!  Master John, I been looking for you all night and this morning I found Hoodoo dead.  Didn’t I say he’d bring you bad luck.  Oh, my!—­are you hurt bad?”

“Less noise there,” said an assistant surgeon, “or get out of this.”

“He’ll be quiet,” said Blake, “and you will have the decency to be less rough.”  The indignant doctor walked away.

“Poor Hoodoo—­he did his best,” murmured John.  “Get me out of this, Blake.  It’s a hell of suffering.  Take me to Tom McGregor at City Point.”

“I will, but now I must go.  General Parke hopes you are doing well.  You will be mentioned in his despatches.”

“That is of no moment—­get me to McGregor.  Hang the flies—­I can’t fight them.”

John never forgot the ambulance and the rough railway ride to City Point, nor his pleasure when at rest in the officers’ pavilion he waited for his old playmate.  As I write I see, as he saw, the long familiar ward, the neat cots, the busy orderlies.  He waited with the impatience of increasing pain.  “Well, Tom,” he said, with an effort to appear gay, “here’s your chance at last to get even.”

McGregor made brief reply as he uncovered the wounded joint.  Then he said gravely, “A little ether—­I will get out the ball.”

“No ether, Tom, I can stand it.  Now get to work.”

“I shall hurt you horribly.”

“No ether,” he repeated.  “Go on, Tom.”