"What's this, Dormer?" said Bobby, bending over the man. "You're not going out
this time. You've got to come fishin' 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 on 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
band opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his side.
"He'll do," said the Doctor, quietly.
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