"It will probably be ten days at least before we go," she said. "It is too far distant to attempt a prophecy."

A more careful examination of the X-ray photographs taken of the patient disclosed the fact that his fourth rib was slightly splintered by the impact of the bullet lodged against it. This accounted for the discomfort that the colonel suffered.

Mrs. Roosevelt was insistent on taking her husband home at the earliest moment consistent with safety.

The colonel pa.s.sed an easy day. He continued to exhibit the utmost indifference to the motives of Schrank, who sought his life. "His name might be Czolgosz or anything else as far as I am concerned," he said to one of his visitors. "I never heard of him before and know nothing about him."

To another friend he expressed the opinion that the man was a maniac afflicted with a paranoia on the subject of the third term. He showed no curiosity about him and did not discuss him, although he talked considerably about the shooting.

"You know," he said to Dr. Murphy, "I have done a lot of hunting and I know that a thirty-eight caliber pistol slug fired at any range will not kill a bull moose."

Before he went to sleep, Col. Roosevelt called for hot water and a mirror and sitting in bed, carefully shaved himself. Mrs. Roosevelt, tired out after her long journey, also retired early, at 10 o'clock.

The following bulletin, issued by the surgeons on the morning of October 15, described the wound inflicted by Schrank's bullet:

"Col. Roosevelt's hurt is a deep bullet wound of the chest wall without striking any vital organ in transit. The wound was not probed. The point of entrance was to the right of and one inch below the level of the right nipple. The range of the bullet was upward and inward, a distance of four inches, deeply in the chest wall. There was no evidence of the bullet penetrating into the lung. Pulse, 90; temperature, 99.2; respiration, 20; leucocyte count, .82 at 10 a.m. No operation to remove bullet is indicated at the present time. Condition hopeful, but wound so important as to demand absolute rest for a number of days."

(Signed)

"Dr. John B. Murphy.

"Dr. Arthur B. Bevan.

"Dr. Scurry L. Terrell.

"Dr. R. G. Sayle."

The arrival of Col. Roosevelt in Mercy Hospital, Chicago, was described by John B. Pratt, of the International News service, a correspondent traveling with the ex-President during the campaign, as follows:

"Any way, if I had to die, I wanted to die with my boots on." Lying on a hospital bed completely filled by his great bulk, Theodore Roosevelt made this answer to a question by Dr. Terrell.

He had just talked with the newspaper men who were with his party enroute. Terrell, coming in at the conclusion of the conversation, expressed the fear that the ex-President was exerting himself beyond his strength.

"You do too much," said Terrell. "The most uncomfortable hour I ever spent in my life was while I sat on that platform in Milwaukee wondering where that bullet was and in how imminent danger you were.

How could you be so incautious as to make a speech then? It was all very well for you to say the shot was not fatal but how could you tell?"

The colonel grinned, raised his arm heavily, trying not to show the pain that came with every movement.

"I did not think the wound was dangerous," he said. "I was confident that it was not in a place where much harm could follow and therefore I wished to make the speech. Anyway, even if it went against me--well, if I had to die--" and the colonel chuckled grimly, "I thought I'd rather die with my boots on."

The newspaper men who were with him when out of the darkness came the bullet that still menaces his life, felt that in that sentence he had epitomized his unfaltering courage. Never once since has he wavered in courage. Physically overcome he once sank back, and came as near to fainting as so strong a man can. All the rest of the time he has been as serene as a man unhurt.

It was in the gray of this morning's daylight that we caught our first glimpse of him after the shooting. Standing in the corridor of his private car as it lay in the North-Western station in Chicago, we heard Dr. Terrell say:

"Now is a chance to see the old warrior, he is coming out."

The door of his state room creaked and swung open slowly. As it swung back within loomed the figure that attracts attention everywhere. The colonel stepped out slowly, his shoulders thrown back and his bearing soldierly. He stretched out two fingers to one of the party.

"Ah, old comrade," he said, "shake. The newspaper boys are my friends,"

he added, as he proceeded toward the door of the car. "I'm glad to see them."

"You had a pretty rough time last night, colonel," suggested somebody.

"We did have a middling lively time, didn't we?" said the colonel with a broad grin.

"Pretty plucky of you," said another man. "Everybody agrees to that."

"Fiddlesticks," and the colonel stepped out on the platform and down the steps.

He had indignantly refused a stretcher and even balked at an ambulance, but finally agreed that this was the best means of conveyance to the hospital.

He walked past a silent crowd, a crowd that wanted to cheer, but did not dare, but stood, without a smile as he went by. To them all he waved a hand. Just as he was leaving the steps a flashlight flared forth, the sharp report of the powder startling everybody.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Capt. A. O. Girard.]

"Ah, shot again," said the colonel, without a tremor.

Before climbing into the ambulance he turned to the newspaper men who had come out to see him off.

"I want to see you newspaper men at the hospital at 3 o'clock. I want all the old guard there." Then he started up the steps of the automobile conveyance with a firm step and tried to seat himself firmly on the cushion. But he had counted on more strength than he possessed.

With a smothered exclamation he sank back among them, his head dropping and his figure one of pathetic helplessness.

At 3 o'clock he welcomed the newspaper men sitting up in bed with his ma.s.sive chest hidden beneath an undershirt.

"I came away in too big a hurry to get my pajamas," he explained, apologetically.

"Here they are, bless their hearts. They never desert me," the colonel cried, as the visitors were ushered in.

His face had lost the gray of the early morning and resumed its normal tint. He never looked better and certainly never looked larger. He filled the narrow hospital cot completely, from side to side, and from end to end.

Two beautiful rooms had been secured for him at Mercy Hospital, one of the biggest and finest inst.i.tutions in the west. The four windows of the sick room faced two on Calumet avenue and two on Twenty-sixth street, in a quiet part of town, away from the smoke and the roar of the elevated trains. To make the air more salubrious an oxygen apparatus had been placed in the room, which liberated just enough gas to make the air fresh and to give it an autumn tw.a.n.g.

In response to a question as to how he felt, he replied with a laugh: "I feel as well as a man feels who has a bullet in him."

"But haven't you any pain?" asked someone.

"Well," the colonel said, dryly, "A man with a bullet in him is lucky if he doesn't experience a little pain."

Here Dr. Terrell, always on watch, held up a warning hand.

"You must not talk much," he said.

"I'll boss this job," said Roosevelt. "You go away and let me do this thing."

Just then the door opened to admit Elbert E. Martin, the herculean stenographer who had grabbed Schrank before he could fire a second shot.

"Here he is," cried the colonel, waving his hand, "here is the man that did it."

Martin had brought a lot of telegrams. The colonel, lying partly propped up adjusted the great tortoise sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses and proceeded to look them over. With one of them he seemed especially pleased. It came from Madison, Wis., and was as follows:

"Permit me to express my profound regret that your life should have been in peril and to express my congratulations upon your fortunate escape from serious injury. I trust that you will speedily recover.