marrow!" He passed out of the tent shivering.

Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by
strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and
said to the patients mildly: "I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im -
so I should."

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.