Of course, under such conditions it was difficult to find my man on
the instant. Innumerable inquiries yielded no result, and in the
absence of any one who would or could give me the desired information
I wandered from one end of the camp to the other till I finally
encountered a petty officer who gave signs of being a Rough Rider.
Him I stopped, and, with some hint of my business, asked where
James Calvert could be found.
His answer was a stare and a gesture toward the hospital tents.
Nothing could have astonished me more.
"Sick?" I cried.
"Dying," was his answer.
Dying! Curly Jim! Impossible. I had misled my informant as to
the exact man I wanted, or else there were two James Calverts in
Tampa. Curly Jim, the former cowboy, was not the fellow to succumb
in camp before he had ever smelt powder.
"It is James Calvert of the First Volunteer Corps I am after," said
I. "A sturdy fellow -"
"No doubt, no doubt. Many sturdy fellows are down. He's down to
stay. Typhoid, you know. Bad case. No hope from the start. Pity,
but -"
I heard no more. Dying! Curly Jim. He who was considered to be
immune! He who held the secret -
"Let me see him," I demanded. "It is important - a police matter
- a word from him may save a life. He is still breathing?"
"Yes, but I do not think there is any chance of his speaking.
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