whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, "they went
into camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and
ten fever cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts
with sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have walked through 'em."

"But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!" said Bobby.

"Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned when you rejoin,"
said the Major brutally.

Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed window-pane
as the train lumbered across the sodden Doab, and prayed for the
health of the Tyneside Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her
contingent with all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie
Road staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch of their
strength; while from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail whirled up
the last straggler of the little army that was to fight a fight,
in which was neither medal nor honour for the winning, against an
enemy none other than "the sickness that destroyeth in the
noonday."

And as each man reported himself, he said: "This is a bad
business," and went about his own forthwith, for every Regiment
and Battery in the cantonment was under canvas, the sickness
bearing them company.

Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail Twisters'
temporary mess, and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for
the joy of seeing that ugly, wholesome phiz once more.