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. He was not used to letter-writing.

"Beg y' pardon, sir," said a voice at the tent door; "but Dormer's
'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir."

"Damn Private Dormer and you too!" said Bobby Wick, running the
blotter over the half-finished letter. "Tell him I'll come in the
morning."

"'E's awful bad, sir," said the voice hesitatingly. There was an