Tod Fanning held out better than many of the stronger men; his vitality surprised the doctors. The death list was steadily growing; and the worst of it was that patients died who were not very sick. Vigorous, clean-blooded young fellows of nineteen and twenty turned over and died because they had lost their courage, because other people were dying,—because death was in the air. The corridors of the vessel had the smell of death about them. Doctor Trueman said it was always so in an epidemic; patients died who, had they been isolated cases, would have recovered.
“Do you know, Wheeler,” the doctor remarked one day when they came up from the hospital together to get a breath of air, “I sometimes wonder whether all these inoculations they’ve been having, against typhoid and smallpox and whatnot, haven’t lowered their vitality. I’ll go off my head if I keep losing men! What would you give to be out of it all, and safe back on the farm?” Hearing no reply, he turned his head, peered over his raincoat collar, and saw a startled, resisting look in the young man’s blue eyes, followed by a quick flush.
“You don’t want to be back on the farm, do you! Not a little bit! Well, well; that’s what it is to be young!” He shook his head with a smile which might have been commiseration, might have been envy, and went back to his duties.
Claude stayed where he was, drawing the wet grey air into his lungs and feeling vexed and reprimanded. It was quite
310
