Suddenly, a resounding whack rang
through the ward. A German boy jumped up sitting in his cot. The sound
had awakened memories. He looked over to the tall Englishman in the next
cot, who had struck out at one of the heavy innumerable flies, who hover
over wounded men, and pry down under bandages.
"Let me tell you," said the youth eagerly, "I have a preparation--I'm a
chemist, you know--I've worked out a powder that kills flies."
Watts looked up from his pillow. His face was weary.
"It's sweet, you know, and attracts them," went on the boy, "then the
least sniff of it finishes them. They trail away, and die in a few
minutes. You can clear a room in half an hour. Then all you have to do
is to sweep up."
"See here," he said, "I'll show you. Sister," he called. The nurse
hurried to his side.
"Sister? You were kind enough to save my kit. May I have it a moment?"
He took out a tin flask, and squeezed it--a brown powder puffed through
the pin-point holes at the mouth. It settled in a dust on the white
coverlet.
"Please be very quiet," he said. He settled back, as if for sleep, but
his half-shut eyes were watchful. A couple of minutes passed, then a fly
circled his head, and made for the spot on the spread. It nosed its way
in, crawled heavily a few inches up the coverlet, and turned its legs
up. Two more came, alighted, sniffed and died.
"You see," he said.
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