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
marvellously, 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 the mail-bags, 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. For an hour the
unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment rose to
more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck out his tongue and
breathed heavily.
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