I
suppose he had got it because he was a bad case,--the cot, I
mean,--and certainly he was far from spry.
"He's dead!" said the old lady, shuddering. "He's dead!"
"Orderly," I said, "number fifty-six is dead!"
The orderly bent over to make sure and then ran for his slate--the
same old slate--and began to write down the same old thing. I
suppose there was some sense to that slate racket, for with a
little spit one slate would do for a brigade, but it seemed a
cheap way to die. Then, as we stood there, another orderly came
gallumphing in with something steaming in a tin can. The old lady
took it out of his hand and smelled it, supercilious.
"What do you call this?" she said.
"It's chicken broth, Ma'am," he said. "That's what it is, Ma'am."
"Faugh!" said the old lady, "faugh!" and handed it back to him,
like she was going to throw it away, but didn't. Then we watched
him dip it out in tin cups and carry it around, while some other
fellers came in and carried out the body of the man in the cot, a
trooper by his legs. We went out with them, and, I tell you, it
was good to stand in the open air again and breathe. The old lady
took a little spell of rest on a packing-case; then she gave me
her umberella and valise to take back to quarters, and, rolling up
her sleeves, made like she was going into the hospital again.
I didn't know what to say, but I guess I looked it.
"William," she said, with a glitter of her gold specs.
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