“You’re all right!” he exulted. “You’re all right! The surgeon said if your mind was clear when you came to you’d be out of danger. Oh, gee, but it’s grand to have you alive again!”
“Alive? What on earth do you mean?”
“Why—why, nothing,” ended the boy.
“What do you mean, dear lad?” insisted his grandfather. “Why shouldn’t I be alive? I’ve been alive ever since I can remember. It’s a kind of habit I got into ever so many years ago.”
Jimmie giggled in sheer relief; a shaky giggle, but vibrant with joy. His grandfather’s voice was very weak and it faltered; but his grandfather’s spirit still burned bright and strong.
And Jimmie rejoiced.
“Go ahead and tell me how I got here, and what’s the matter with me,” murmured Dad haltingly. “I’m in a hospital tent, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir. Been here a week. Senseless all the time. Concussion of the brain, the sawbones called it. Said if you came out of it sane you’d be all right in just a few days. Oh, but it’s been a rotten time, Dad! They let me stay, because I wouldn’t keep out. But you kept looking so—so dead!”
The boy shuddered violently, then grinned again and squeezed Dad’s hand.
“Tell me all about it, son,” begged Dad. “Everything. From—from—”