Corporal last week. You'll find him in the third tent on your left. I don't
suppose you know that he's on the sick list with a bad ankle?"

"No!"

"Yep."

"I hope it isn't serious."

"Hm-m-m"--the Captain stroked his chin--"no, the ankle isn't serious, but
being on the sick list is. Run along and cheer him up. Tell him that I'll
be down to see him in a few minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The Captain turned back to the doctor, and Tom threaded his way down the
street. At the third tent he stopped, pulled open the flap and peered in.
There was Bert, stretched out on his bedding, writing a letter. His right
ankle was a mass of bandages from which his toes peered out. He did not
look up from his writing.

"Does Corporal Herbert Brewster of Cleveland, Ohio, live here?" asked Tom.

"You, Tom! you!"

"Don't try to get up on that bad ankle." He rushed over and grabbed Bert's
hand. "How are you?"

"What in the world are you doing at Murphytown?--or whatever they call this
end of the mud-puddle. And how are all the people? When did you see mother