Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy-cold hand closed on
his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the little
finger deep into the flesh. 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