r it and forced a laugh.

"You're sure a hard drinker," she bantered and wet her handkerchief to
lay on his brow.

"That's the first decent drink I've had for a month," he told her,
dropping back to the pillow, refreshed to the point of clear thinking.
"Old Lady Fortune's still playing football with me, William. I've been
laid up with a broken leg for about six weeks. And when I got gay and
thought I could handle myself again, I put myself out of business for
awhile, and caught this cold before I came to and crawled back into
bed. I'm--sure glad you showed up, old girl. I was--getting up
against it for fair." He coughed.

"Looks like it." Billy Louise held herself rigidly back from any
emotional expression. She could not afford to "go to pieces" now. She
tried to think just what a trained nurse would do, in such a case. Her
hospital experience would be of some use here, she told herself. She
remembered reading somewhere that no experience is valueless, if one
only applies the knowledge gained.

"First," she said cheerfully, "the patient must be kept quiet and
cheerful. So don't go jumping up and down on your broken leg, Ward
Warren; the nurse forbids it. And smile, if it kills you."

Ward grinned appreciatively. Sick as he was, he realized the gameness
of Billy Louise; what he failed to realize was the gameness of himself.
"I'm a pretty worthless specimen, right now," he said apologetically.
"But I'm yours to command, Bill-the-Conk. You're the doctor."

"Nope, I'm the cook, right now. I've got a hunch. How would you like
a cup of tea, patient?"

"I'd rather have coffee--Doctor William."

"Tea, you mean. I'll have it ready in ten minutes." Then she weakened
before his imploring eyes. "You really oughtn't to drink coffee, with
that fever, Ward. But, maybe if I don't make it very strong and put in
lots of cream-- We'll take a chance, buckaroo!"

Ward watched her as intently as if his life depended on her speed. He
had lain in that bunk for nearly six weeks with the coffee-pot sitting
in plain sight on the back of the stove, twelve feet or so from his
reach, and with the can of coffee standing in plain sight on the rough
board shelf against the wall by the window. And he had craved coffee
almost as badly as a drunkard craves whisky.

The sound of the fire snapping in the stove was like music to him.
Later, the smell of the coffee coming briskly to the boiling-point made
his mouth water wit