Lane was admitted at once into the office of Doctor Bronson, a little, gray, slight man with shrewd, kind eyes and a thoughtful brow. For years he had been a friend as well as physician to the Lanes, and he had always liked Daren. His surprise was great and his welcome warm. But a moment later he gazed at Lane with piercing eyes. "Look here, boy, did you go to the bad over there?" he demanded. "How do you mean, Doctor?" "Did you let down--debase yourself morally?" "No. But I went to the bad physically and spiritually." "I see that. I don't like the color of your face.... Well, well, Daren. It was hell, wasn't it? Did you kill a couple of Huns for me?" Questions like this latter one always alienated Lane in some unaccountable way. It must have been revealed in his face. "Never mind, Daren. I see that you _did_.... I'm glad you're back alive. Now what can I do for you?" "I've been discharged from three hospitals in the last two months--not because I was well, but because I was in better shape than some other poor devil. Those doctors in the service grew hard--they had to be hard--but they saw the worst, the agony of the war. I always felt sorry for them. They never seemed to eat or sleep or rest. They had no time to save a man. It was cut him up or tie him up--then on to the next.... Now, Doc, I want you to look me over and--well--tell me what to expect." "All right," replied Doctor Bronson, gruffly. "And I want you to promise not to tell mother or any one. Will you?" "Yes, I promise. Now come in here and get off some of your clothes." "Doctor, it's pretty tough on me to get in and out of my clothes." "I'll help you. Now tell me what the Germans did to you." Lane laughed grimly. "Doctor, do you remember I was in your Sunday School class?" "Yes, I remember that. What's it got to do with Germans?" "Nothing. It struck me funny, that's all.... Well, to get it over. I was injured several times at the training camp." "Anything serious?" "No, I guess not. Anyway I forgot about _them._ Doctor, I was shot four times, once clear through. I'll show you. Got a bad bayonet jab that doesn't seem to heal well. Then I had a dose of both gases--chlorine and mustard--and both all but killed me. Last I've a weak place in my spine. There's a vertebra that slips out of place occasionally. The least movement may do it. I _can't_ guard against it. The last time it slipped out I was washing my teeth. I'm in mortal dread of this. For it twists me out of shape and hurts horribly. I'm afraid it'll give me paralysis." "Humph! It would. But it can be fixed.... So that's all they did to you?" Underneath the dry humor of the little doctor, Lane thought he detected something akin to anger. "Yes, that's all they did to my body," replied Lane.