inned the rose.

Burke flushed. He smiled, bashfully, and old Barton beamed.

"Thank you," said Bobbie, and the attendant wheeled him on into his own
room.

"Nurse, could you get me a glass of water for this rose?" asked Bobbie.

"Certainly," said the pretty nurse, with a curious glance at the red
blossom. "It's very pretty. It's just a bud and, if you keep it
fresh, will last a long time."

She placed it on the table by his cot.

As she left the room, she looked again at the rose.

Sometimes even nurses are human.

And Bobbie looked at the rose. It was the sweetest rose he had ever
seen. He hoped that it would last a long, long time.

"I will try to keep it fresh," he murmured, as he awkwardly rolled over
into his bed.

Sometimes even policemen are human, too.

CHAPTER III

THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT

Officer Burke was back again at his work on the force. He was a trifle
pale, and the hours on patrol duty and fixed post seemed trebly long,
for even his sturdy physique was tardy in recuperating from that
vicious shock at the base of his brain.

"Take it easy, Burke," advised Captain Sawyer, "you have never had a
harder day in uniform than this one. Those two fires, the work at the
lines with the reserves and your patrol in place of Dexter, who is laid
up with his cold, is going it pretty strong."

"That's all right, Captain. I'm much obliged for your interest. But a
little more work to-night won't hurt me. I'll hurry strength along by
keeping up this hustling. People who want to stay sick generally
succeed. Doctor MacFarland is looking after me, so I am not worried."

Bobbie left the house with his comrades to relieve the men on patrol.

It was late afternoon of a balmy spring day.

The weeks since he had been injured had drifted into months, and there
seemed many changes in the little world of the East Side. This store
had failed; that artisan had moved out, and even two or three fruit
dealers whom Bobbie patronized had disappeared.

In the same place stood other stands, managed by Italians who looked
like caricatures drawn by the same artist who limned their predecessors.

"It must be pretty hard for even the Italian Squad to tell all these
fellows apart, Tom," said Bobbie, as they stood on the corner by one of
the stalls.

"Sure, lad. All Ginnies look alike to me. Maybe that's why they carve
each other up every now and then at them little shindigs of theirs.
Little family