"No visitors allowed in
this ward at night."
Two eyes, big and dark and beseeching, were raised to his. They shone
from the white face and plead with him.
"Oh, doctor . . . _please_!" was all she said, but the eyes won her
battle.
The nurse joined forces with the eyes. She looked past the surgeon.
"Very few in here to-night, Doctor Brandt," she urged.
"I wonder what would become of hospital rules if we left it to you
nurses!" he protested, as he stepped aside and gently drew the girl
within.
Down the dim aisle between the snowy beds we went, until the surgeon
stopped at one, beside which sat a nurse, her fingers on the wrist of
the bandaged occupant.
One bloodless hand picked feebly at the covering. The girl took this
in both her own and pressed it to her cheek. Then stooping even lower,
she cooed to the head on the pillow.
"The Big Train's pulled in . . ." muttered a far voice from between the
bandages.
"Railroad man--isn't he?" inquired the surgeon of me.
"No. A horseman," I replied.
"He talks about trains. Was it a railroad accident?"
"He was injured by a horse called The Big Train," I explained.
"Oh--that one," he said, enlightened.
"Why don't they shoot him?"
"They did," I said.
"Good!" exclaimed the surgeon. "That is fine!"
After taking the girl to her home, I sent telegrams to "Mr. Van," as I
had heard Blister call him--one to Morrisville, New Jersey, and one to
the Union Club, New York.
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