They had brought him in very carefully, the husky but femininely gentle stretcher bearers, for he was nothing but a kid after all, with a complexion like a girl’s and with pathetically pleading eyes. He was crying in his hospital bed when the correspondent came across him and stopped to investigate.
“Are you in great pain?” the newspaper man sympathetically asked.
The lad looked into the other’s eyes and nodded with a choking sob.
“Where does it hurt?” the correspondent pursued.
“It ain’t that,” was the reply; “it’s because they yanked me out of the scrap when I still had ten rounds left.”