FullReads

By what power he drew after him the hearts of the roughest, and the Tail Twisters counted in their ranks some rough diamonds indeed, was a mystery to both skipper and C. 0., who learned from the regimental chaplain that Bobby was considerably more in request in the hospital tents than the Reverend John Emery.

“The men seem fond of you. Are you in the hospitals much?” said the Colonel, who did his daily round and ordered the men to get well with a hardness that did not cover his bitter grief.

“A little, sir,” said Bobby.

“Shouldn’t go there too often if I were you. They say it’s not contagious, but there’s no use in running unnecessary risks. We can’t afford to have you down, y’ know.”

Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that the post- runner plashed his way out to the camp with the mail-bags, for the rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off to his tent, and, the programme for the next week’s Sing-song being satisfactorily disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an hour the unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment rose to more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck out his tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to letter-writing.

“Beg y’ pardon, sir,” said a voice at the tent door; “but Dormer’s ‘orrid bad, sir, an’ they’ve taken him orf, sir.”

“Damn Private Dormer and you too!” said Bobby Wick, running the blotter over the half-finished letter. “Tell him I’ll come in the morning.”

“‘E’s awful bad, sir,” said the voice hesitatingly. There was an undecided squelching of heavy boots.

“Well?” said Bobby impatiently.

“Excusin’ ‘imself before ‘and for takin’ the liberty, ‘e says it would be a comfort for to assist ‘im, sir, if – ” tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of the rain till I’m ready. What blasted nuisances you are! That’s brandy. Drink some; you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell me if I go too fast.”

Strengthened by a four-finger “nip” which he swallowed without a wink, the Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping, mud-stained, and very disgusted pony as it shambled to the hospital tent.

Private Dormer was certainly “‘orrid bad.” He had all but reached the stage of collapse, and was not pleasant to look upon.

“What’s this, Dormer?” said Bobby, bending over the man. “You’re not going out this time. You’ve got to come fishing with me once or twice more yet.”

The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whisper said, – “Beg y’ pardon, sir, disturbin’ of you now, but would you min’ ‘oldin’ my ‘and, sir’?

Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy-cold hand closed on his own like a vice, forcing a lady’s ring which was on the little finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the water dripping from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed, and the grasp of the hand did not relax, nor did the expression of the drawn face change. Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot with the left hand (his right arm was numbed to the elbow), and resigned himself to a night of pain.

Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on the side of a sick man’s cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language unfit for publication.

“Have you been here all night, you young ass?” said the Doctor.

“There or thereabouts,” said Bobby ruefully. “He’s frozen on to me.”

Dormer’s mouth shut with a click. He turned his head and sighed. The clinging hand opened, and Bobby’s arm fell useless at his side.

“He’ll do,” said the Doctor quietly. “It must have been a toss-up all through the night. ‘Think you’re to be congratulated on this case.”

“Oh, bosh!” said Bobby. “I thought the man had gone out long ago – only – only I didn’t care to take my hand away. Rub my arm down, there’s a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I’m chilled to the marrow!” He passed out of the tent shivering.