“Pretty bad?” she cried.
He shook his head.
“Is Tom back?”
“He’s over there, now. Fighting like all possessed. He’ll work till he drops.” Wooster was proud of that method.
“We all know Tom!” Her pride sprang up. “But he’s got to stop for a while. I’m going up after him.”
“Not if my name’s Wooster. I’ll go. He’ll mind me.” What if he were dropping, himself, with sleep and fatigue? It was a chance to serve Hardin; to bring a smile of gratitude to the eyes of this little comrade of the desert, whom the engineers adored in their several fashions. Wooster’s worship was louder than the others; the younger men shyer, but more fervent. Wooster found her calm boyish eyes beautiful, but not disturbing. But she was a Hardin; and a pretty one. Wooster would serve a Hardin, or a pretty woman, were his last hour come.
“Can you?” she cried; meaning—“Would you be so good?”
“Can I? He’ll mind me,” bragged Wooster. His small bright eyes snapped over some recollections. “I’ve made him rest before when he didn’t want to. I can do it again.”
“It’s terribly good of you, but I mean, can you get away?”
“I’m through here.” He omitted to say that he was to report at six in the evening. “I’ll send him back to you, Miss Hardin.”