'
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.
'You are overdoing it, Bobby,' said his skipper. ''Might give the rest
of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were the
whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy.'
'I will,' said Bobby. 'I'm feeling done up. somehow.' Revere looked
at him anxiously and said nothing.
There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and a
rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a
paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers and the rush of a
galloping horse.
'Wot's up?' asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the
answer 'Wick, 'e's down.'
They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. 'Any one but
Bobby and I shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right.
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