was stripped of his sodden,
bloody undershirt and overalls, partly covered by his blanket. He could
feel bandages on his legs, on one badly slashed arm. He made out Betty
Gower's face with its unruly mass of reddish-brown hair and two rose
spots of color glowing on her smooth cheeks. There was also a tall young
man, coatless, showing a white expanse of flannel shirt with the sleeves
rolled above his elbows. MacRae could only see this out of one corner of
his eye, for he was being turned gently over on his face. Weak and
passive as he was, the firm pressure of Betty's soft hands on his skin
gave him a curiously pleasant sensation.

He heard her draw her breath sharply and make some exclamation as his
bare back turned to the light.

"This chap has been to the wars, eh, Miss Gower?" he heard the man say.
"Those are machine-gun marks, I should say--close range, too. I saw
plenty of that after the Argonne."

"Such scars. How could a man live with holes like that through his
body?" Betty said. "He was in the air force."

"Some Hun got in a burst of fire on him, sometime, then," the man
commented. "Didn't get him, either, or he wouldn't be here. Why, two or
three bullet holes like that would only put a fellow out for a few
weeks. Look at him," he tapped MacRae's back with a forefinger.
"Shoulders and chest and arms like a champion middle weight ready to go
twenty rounds. And you can bet all your pin money, Miss Gower, that this
man's heart and lungs and nerves are away above par or he would never
have got his wings. Takes a lot to down those fellows. Looks in bad
shape now, doesn't he? All cut and bruised and exhausted. But he'll be
walking about day after to-morrow. A little stiff and sore, but
otherwise well enough."

"I wish he'd open his eyes and speak," Betty said. "How can you tell? He
may be injured internally."

The man chuckled. He did not cease work as he talked. He was using a
damp cloth, with a pungent medicated smell. Dual odors familiar to every
man who has ever been in hospital assailed MacRae's nostrils. Wherever
that damp cloth touched a cut it burned. MacRae listened drowsily. He
had not the strength or the wish to do anything else.

"Heart action's normal. Respiration and temperature, ditto," he heard
above him. "Unconsciousness is merely natural reaction from shock,
nerve strain, loss of blood. You can guess what sort of fight he must
have made in those breakers. If you were a sawbones, Miss Gower,