Bennett drew himself up.

“My compliments to the officer in command.  Tell him there are six of us left—­tell him—­oh, tell him anything you damn please.  Men,” he cried, his harsh face suddenly radiant, “make ready to get out of this!  We’re going home, going home to those who love us, men.”

III.

As Lloyd Searight turned into Calumet Square on her way from the bookseller’s, with her purchases under her arm, she was surprised to notice a drop of rain upon the back of one of her white gloves.  She looked up quickly; the sun was gone.  On the east side of the square, under the trees, the houses that at this hour of the afternoon should have been overlaid with golden light were in shadow.  The heat that had been palpitating through all the City’s streets since early morning was swiftly giving place to a certain cool and odorous dampness.  There was even a breeze beginning to stir in the tops of the higher elms.  As the drops began to thicken upon the warm, sun-baked asphalt under foot Lloyd sharply quickened her pace.  But the summer storm was coming up rapidly.  By the time she reached the great granite-built agency on the opposite side of the square she was all but running, and as she put her key in the door the rain swept down with a prolonged and muffled roar.

She let herself into the spacious, airy hallway of the agency, shutting the door by leaning against it, and stood there for an instant to get her breath.  Rownie, the young mulatto girl, one of the servants of the house, who was going upstairs with an armful of clean towels, turned about at the closing of the door and called: 

“Jus’ in time, Miss Lloyd; jus’ in time.  I reckon Miss Wakeley and Miss Esther Thielman going to get for sure wet.  They ain’t neither one of ’em took ary umberel.”

“Did Miss Wakeley and Miss Thielman both go out?” demanded Lloyd quickly.  “Did they both go on a call?”

“Yes, Miss Lloyd,” answered Rownie.  “I don’t know because why Miss Wakeley went, but Miss Esther Thielman got a typhoid call—­another one.  That’s three f’om this house come next Sunday week.  I reckon Miss Wakeley going out meks you next on call, Miss Lloyd.”

While Rownie had been speaking Lloyd had crossed the hall to where the roster of the nurses’ names, in little movable slides, hung against the wall.  As often as a nurse was called out she removed her name from the top of this list and slid it into place at the bottom, so that whoever found her name at the top of the roster knew that she was “next on call” and prepared herself accordingly.

Lloyd’s name was now at the top of the list.  She had not been gone five minutes from the agency, and it was rare for two nurses to be called out in so short a time.

“Is it your tu’n?” asked Rownie as Lloyd faced quickly about.

“Yes, yes,” answered Lloyd, running up the stairs, adding, as she passed the mulatto:  “There’s been no call sent in since Miss Thielman left, has there, Rownie?” Rownie shook her head.