A letter came to Bobby every
other day. The spelling was not above reproach, but the sentiments must have
been most satisfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes softened marvelously, and
he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction for a while ere, shaking his
cropped head, he charged into his work.
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. O., 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 mailbags, 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.
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