Two hundred and ten fever cases only, and the balance
looking like so many ghosts with sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have
walked through 'em."
"But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!" said Bobby.
"Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned when you rejoin," said the
Major, brutally.
Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed windowpane as the train
lumbered across the sodden Doab, and prayed for the health of the Tyneside
Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her contingent with all speed; the
lathering ponies of the Dalhousie Road staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the
full stretch of their strength; while from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail
whirled up the last straggler of the little army that was to fight a fight, in
which was neither medal nor honor for the winning, against an enemy none other
than "the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday."
And as each man reported himself, he said: "This is a bad business," and went
about his own forthwith, for every Regiment and Battery in the cantonment was
under canvas, the sickness bearing them company.
Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail Twisters' temporary mess,
and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for the joy of seeing that
ugly, wholesome phiz once more.
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