"There's Quite So, now," said Strong, "when a Minie-ball comes _ping_!
and knocks one of his guns to flinders, he merely smiles, and doesn't at
all see the degradation of the thing."
Poor Bladburn! As I watched him day by day going about his duties, in
his shy, cheery way, with a smile for every one and not an extra word
for anybody, it was hard to believe he was the same man who, that night
before we broke camp by the Potomac, had poured out to me the story of
his love and sorrow in words that burned in my memory.
While Strong was speaking, Blakely lifted aside the flap of the tent and
looked in on us.
"Boys, Quite So was hurt last night," he said, with a white tremor to
his lip.
"What!"
"Shot on picket."
"Why, he was in the pit next to mine," cried Strong.
"Badly hurt?"
"Badly hurt."
I knew he was; I need not have asked the question. He never meant to go
back to New England!
* * * * *
Bladburn was lying on the stretcher in the hospital-tent. The surgeon
had knelt down by him, and was carefully cutting away the bosom of his
blouse. The Latin grammar, stained and torn, slipped, and fell to the
floor. Bladburn gave me a quick glance. I picked up the book, and as I
placed it in his hand, the icy fingers closed softly over mine. He was
sinking fast. In a few minutes the surgeon finished his examination.
When he rose to his feet there were tears on the weather-beaten cheeks.
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