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 of 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 hand opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his side.
'He'll do,' said the Doctor quietly. '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.
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