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Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and said to the patients mildly: “I’d ‘a’ liken to ‘a’ spoken to ‘im – so I should.”

But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter, – he had the most persistent correspondent of any man in camp, – and was even then about to write that the sickness had abated, and in another week at the outside would be gone. He did not intend to say that the chill of a sick man’s hand seemed to have struck into the heart whose capacities for affection he dwelt on at such length. He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the forthcoming Sing-song, whereof he was not a little proud. He also intended to write on many other matters which do not concern us, and doubtless would have done so but for the slight feverish headache which made him dull and unresponsive at mess.

“You are overdoing it, Bobby,” said his skipper. “‘Might give the rest of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were the whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy.”

“I will,” said Bobby. “I’m feeling done up, somehow.” Revere looked at him anxiously and said nothing.

There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and a rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers, and the rush of a galloping horse.

“Wot’s up?” asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the answer – “Wick, ‘e’s down.”

They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. “Any one but Bobby and I shouldn’t have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right.”

“Not going out this journey,” gasped Bobby, as he was lifted from the doolie. “Not going out this journey.” Then with an air of supreme conviction – “I can’t, you see.”

“Not if I can do anything!” said the Surgeon-Major, who had hastened over from the mess where he had been dining.

He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together with Death for the life of Bobby Wick. Their work was interrupted by a hairy apparition in a blue-gray dressing-gown, who stared in horror at the bed and cried – “Oh, my Gawd! It can’t be ‘im!” until an indignant Hospital Orderly whisked him away.

If care of man and desire to live could have done aught, Bobby would have been saved. As it was, he made a fight of three days, and the Surgeon-Major’s brow uncreased. “We’ll save him yet,” he said; and the Surgeon, who, though he ranked with the Captain, had a very youthful heart, went out upon the word and pranced joyously in the mud.

“Not going out this journey,” whispered Bobby Wick gallantly, at the end of the third day.

“Bravo!” said the Surgeon-Major. “That’s the way to look at it, Bobby.”

As evening fell a gray shade gathered round Bobby’s mouth, and he turned his face to the tent-wall wearily. The Surgeon-Major frowned.

“I’m awfully tired,” said Bobby, very faintly. “What’s the use of bothering me with medicine? I – don’t – want – it. Let me alone.”

The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was content to drift away on the easy tide of Death.

“It’s no good,” said the Surgeon-Major. “He doesn’t want to live. He’s meeting it, poor child.” And he blew his nose.

Half a mile away, the regimental band was playing the overture to the Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out of danger. The clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached Bobby’s ears.

Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno-ow?
You do not love me, ’tis in vain,
Bid me good-bye and go!

An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy’s face, and he tried to shake his head.

The Surgeon-Major bent down -” What is it, Bobby? “—” Not that waltz,” muttered Bobby. “That’s our own – our very ownest own . . Mummy dear.”

With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early next morning.

Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went into Bobby’s tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby’s little store of papers lay in confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: “So you see, darling, there is really no fear, because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you, nothing can touch me.”

Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes were redder than ever.

Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should have been tenderly treated.

“Ho! “said Private Conklin. “There’s another bloomin’ orf’cer da- ed.”

The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bedgown was regarding him with deep disfavour.

“You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf’cer? – bloomin’ orf’cer? I’ll learn you to misname the likes of ‘im. Hangel! Bloomin’ Hangel! That’s wot ‘e is!”

And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the justice of the punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to his cot.