"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.
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.
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