Then it was that a new, strange peace came upon Skipper Ed, and he reentered the tent, to stoop again over Bobby's couch, and as he did so his heart gave a bound of joy, and a lump came into his throat. Bobby was breathing—ever so softly—but breathing.
With the passing minutes the steady, regular breathing became more apparent, the pulse asserted itself and grew stronger, and at the end of an hour, when Bobby at last opened his eyes Skipper Ed saw that reason had returned to them.
"I've—been—asleep—dreaming—queer—dreams," Bobby murmured faintly.
"Yes," said Skipper Ed, "you've been asleep."
"I—feel—very—weak."
"Yes, you're very weak, for you've been very sick, lad," and Skipper Ed, choking back his emotion, added cheerily: "But there's better luck for you now, lad. Better luck."
"May—I—have—a—drink?"
Skipper Ed poured some water into a tin cup, and supporting Bobby's head, held the cup to his parched lips.
"Father—and mother—and Jimmy—where—are—they?" Bobby feebly asked, for even in sickness his eye was quick to note their absence.
"They're in my tent. Nearly well, but not well enough to go out and get chilled, though they're ready enough for it, and tired enough of staying in," said Skipper Ed.