take the sun out of the sky, you can give me a drink."

The native shook his head.

"The doctor will come soon," he said soothingly. "Have patience."

Patience! The word had no meaning for him in that inferno of suffering.
He moved his head, that searching spot of sunlight dancing in his eyes,
and cursed deep in his throat the man who kept him waiting.

Barely a minute later the doctor came--a quiet, bronzed man, level-eyed
and strong. He bent over the stricken figure on the bed, and drew the
tumbled covering up a little higher. He had just written "mortally
wounded" of this man on his hospital report, but there was nothing in
his manner to indicate that he had no hope for him.

"Get another pillow," he said to the native orderly. And to the dying
man: "That will take the sun out of your eyes. I see it is bothering
you."

"Curse the sun!" the parched lips gasped. "Can't you give me a drink?"

The eyes of the young soldier in the next bed scanned the doctor's face
anxiously. He, too, wanted a drink. He thirsted from the depths of his
soul. But he knew there was no water to be had. The supply had been cut
off hours before.

"No," the doctor said gravely. "I can't give it you yet. By-and-bye,
perhaps----"

"By-and-bye!" There was a dreadful sound like laughter in the husky
voice.

The doctor laid a restraining hand on the man's chest.

"Hush!" he said, in a lower tone. "It's this sort of thing that shows
what a fellow is made of. All these other poor chaps are children. But
you, Ford, you are grown up, so to speak. I look to you to help me,--to
set the example."

"Example! Man alive!" A queer light danced like a mocking spirit in
Private Ford's eyes, and again he laughed--an exceeding bitter laugh.
"I've been made an example of all my life," he said. "I've sometimes
thought it was what I was created for. Ah, thanks!" he added in a
different tone, as the doctor raised him on the extra pillow. "You're a
brick, sir! Sit down a minute, will you? I want to talk to you."

The doctor complied, his hand on the wounded man's wrist.

"That's better," Ford said. "Keep it there. And stop me if I rave. It's
a queer little world, isn't it? I remember you well, but you wouldn't
know me. You were one of the highfliers, and I was always more or less
of an earthworm. But you'll remember Rotherby, the captain of the first
eleven? A fine chap--that. He's dead now, eh?"

"Yes," the doctor said, "Rotherby's dead."

He was