s of the whole
play. So we'll have some rehearsals in the morning."

"Am I to do that riding act?" asked Estelle.

"Yes, you'll do the horse stunt as usual. There's to be a cavalry
charge, Miss Brown, so don't get in their way and be run down."

"I'll try not to," she answered.

CHAPTER XXII

ALICE DOES WELL

Long rows of wounded men lay stretched out on white cots in the
hospital. Some wore bandages over their heads all but concealing their
eyes. Others were so entwined with white wrappings that it was hard to
say whether they were men or oriental women. Still others raised
themselves on their elbows, spasms of pain corrugating their brows,
while red cross nurses held to their lips cooling drinks.

Here at the bedside of one stood a grave surgeon, slowly shaking his
head as he came to the melancholy conclusion that a further operation
was useless. Over there they were carrying out a motionless form on a
stretcher, a sheet mercifully draped over what was left. At the entrance
to the hospital other bearers were carrying in those who came from the
scene of the distant firing.

The boom of big guns shook the frail shack that had been turned into a
hospital. Now and then, as the wind blew in fitful gusts, there was
borne on it the acrid smell of powder. And again, in some dark corner of
that building of suffering, there could be seen through the cracks, left
by hasty builders, the flash of fire that preceded the booming crash of
the cannon.

A sad-faced woman in black moved slowly down the line of cots led by a
sympathetic nurse. She came to one bed, stopped as though in doubt,
passed her hand over her face as if she did not want to admit that what
she saw she did see, and then she fell on her knees in a passion of
weeping, while the surgeons turned away their heads. She had found what
she had sought.

From the farther door there entered a man, limping on crutches
improvised from the limbs of a tree. Stained bandages were about one arm
and another leg. His head, too, was wrapped so that only half his face
showed. A hurrying orderly met him.

"You can't come in here!" he cried.

"Why not, I'd like to know. Ain't this the horspital?"

"Of course it is."

"Then why can't I come in here. I'm hurt, and hurt bad, pardner. Shot
through leg and arm, and part of my jaw gone. Why can't I come in?"

"'Cause you can't. Didn't we just carry you out for dead? What'll the
audience think if they see you walking