“This boy George is too young for another spell of desert work. He ought to go out, for a rest, and then on to the railroad. I’ll send some dispatches back, for General Casement.”
“Aw——!” George blurted. “Please let me stay. I’m all right. I——” and with a burst of tears he collapsed in Terry’s arms, as they sat.
“Humph! Fainted,” murmured Doctor Terry, the army surgeon, sprinting for him. “It’s nothing serious,” he reported, feeling George’s pulse, and then working over him. “Weakness. I like his spunk.”
“So do I,” General Dodge declared. “But you all can see that he ought to go. Can you spare him, Tom?”
“He’s as good as any man in my outfit, general. And he’s no quitter. He won’t go unless he’s ordered. What do you say, Stanton? You’re his father.”
Mr. Stanton shook his head.
“That makes no difference, sir. He’s a member of the party. I ask no favors for him. You’re his chief. He’s stuck it out so far and acted like a man. But I don’t deny that I’d feel easier, myself, if he was at work somewhere else, for a change.”
“I’ll order him,” spoke the general, briskly. “I’ll re-assign him. And the dispatches must go.” His eyes wandered musingly over his company.
At George’s wail of disappointment, and his collapse, Terry’s heart had risen chokingly. With sudden impulse he stood up and saluted.
“I’ll take them and go with George, sir, if you please. He—we sort of hang together, and he’d feel better about it, to have me along.”