Ernest Hemingway

The night ambulance attendants shuffled down the long, dark corridors at the General Hospital with an inert burden on the stretcher. They turned in at the receiving ward and lifted the unconscious man to the operating table.  His hands calloused and he was unkempt and ragged, a victim of a street brawl near the city market.  No one knew who he was, but a receipt, bearing the name of George Anderson, for $10 paid on a home out in the little Nebraska town served to identify him.