"Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno—ow?
You do not love me, 'tis in vain,
Bid me good-bye and go!"
An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and he tried to shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down: "What is it, Bobby?"
"Not that waltz," muttered Bobby. "That's our own—our very ownest own—Mummy dear."
With this oracular sentence he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early next morning.
Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in confusion on the table and among them a half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: "So you see, darling, there is really no fear, because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you, nothing can touch me".
Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes were redder than ever. •••••••••• Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket and listened to a not unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should have been tenderly treated.
"Ho!" said Private Conklin. "There's another bloomin' orf'cer da—ed."
The bucket shot from under him and his eyes filled with a smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue grey bed-gown was regarding him with deep disfavour.
"You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf'cer?—Bloomin' orf'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes of 'im. Hangel! Bloomin' Hangel! That's wot 'e is!"
And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the justice of the punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to his cot.
