IN the surgical ward of the Hope Hospital at Hanaford, a nurse was bending over a young man whose bandaged right hand and arm lay stretched along the bed.<br />His head stirred uneasily, and slipping her arm behind him she effected a professional readjustment of the pillows. &ldquo;Is that better?&rdquo;<br />As she leaned over, he lifted his anxious bewildered eyes, deep-sunk under ridges of suffering. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t s&rsquo;pose there&rsquo;s any kind of a show for me, is there?&rdquo; he asked, pointing with his free hand&mdash;the stained seamed hand of the mechanic&mdash;to the inert bundle on the quilt.<br />Her only immediate answer was to wipe the dampness from his forehead; then she said: &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll talk about that tomorrow.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Why not now?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Because Dr. Disbrow can&rsquo;t tell till the inflammation goes down.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Will it go down by tomorrow?&rdquo;