And far behind Berkley heard his loud, bullying voice: "Git! you duck-legged, egg-suckin', skunk-backed loafers! Go on, there! Aw, don't yer talk back to me 'r I'll let m' horse bite yer pants off! Back yer go! Forrard! Hump! Hump! Scoot!" Through the heavily falling rain he saw the lighted school buildings looming among the trees; turned into the drive, accounted for himself, gave his horse to a negro with orders to care for it, and followed a ward-master into an open-faced shed where a kettle was boiling over a sheet-iron stove.
The ward-master returned presently, threading his way through a mass of parked ambulances to the shed where Berkley sat on a broken cracker box.
"Colonel Arran is very low.

I guess you'd better not bother him to-night." "Is he--mortally hurt ?" "I've seen worse." "He may get well ?" "I've seen 'em get well," said the non-committal ward-master.
Then, looking Berkley over: "You're pretty dirty, ain't you?
Are you--" he raised his eyebrows significantly.
"I'm clean," said Berkley with the indifference habituated to filth.
"All right.

They'll fix you up a cot somewhere.

If Colonel Arran comes out all right I'll call you.

He's full of opium now." "Did they get the bullet ?" "Oh, yes.