“And I feel almost as well,” replied Ben. “The rest has done me a world of good. But what brought you up, Jack? Did Larry come with you?”
“No, Larry didn’t come,” stammered the old tar, and looked down at the floor. “Fact is, leftenant, Larry—he—he couldn’t come.”
“Couldn’t come? Why, what’s the matter?” cried Ben, quickly. “Is he sick?”
“I reckon not—leas’wise, I don’t know. Fact is, leftenant, none on us know. Ye see, he went upon thet Santa Cruz expedition—”
“Yes, yes, I know that. And what of it? Was he—was he—” Ben could not utter the words which came to his mind.
“No, he wasn’t shot, thet is, so far as we know. But he’s—well, he’s missin’, an’ we can’t find hide nor hair o’ him anywhere. I might ez well tell ye fust ez last, though it cuts my heart to do it, leftenant.” And Jack Biddle shook his head dubiously.
It was a great shock to Ben, yet he stood it 86 better than the old tar had expected. He asked immediately for details, and though he drank in every word his manner showed that his thoughts were far away.
“I wish I had been along,” he said bitterly. “If he wasn’t killed, the Filipinos must have carried him off a pretty good distance. I wonder if General Lawton tried to find out anything under a flag of truce.”
“Everything that could be done was done—I have Captain Gaston’s word on that,” answered Jack Biddle. Captain Gaston and Ben were well known to each other.
Ben sank down on a bench, and for several minutes said not a word, but the tears stood in his eyes, tears which he hastily dried that nobody might see them. Then Gilbert Pennington came in, to tell him that the regiment was ordered to move within the hour.