“One of the janitors?” repeated Tom, wonderingly.
“Yes, Flack. He’s assigned to the officers’ quarters.”
“Oh, yes, I know him.” Flack was an old soldier who had become crippled from rheumatism, and had been assigned some light tasks about the Academy. Tom had done him a number of slight favors, and the man seemed unusually grateful.
“Let him come up,” Tom said, feeling quite touched by this mark of liking on the part of one of the subordinates. Tom had quite forgotten that Flack felt under obligations to him.
“I’ll bring him,” the orderly said.
Flack came in limping, yet with a trace of his former soldierly uprightness. On his wrinkled face, twisted by the drawing pains of rheumatism, there was a cheery smile.
“My, but I’m sorry to see you in this shape, Mr. Taylor, sir,” said the janitor. “Very sorry,” and he saluted.
“Oh, it might be worse,” Tom said. “Have a chair,” and he indicated one near the bed.
“No, I won’t stay,” Flack answered. “I just came to bring you something.” He gave a quick look around, and noting that the orderly had left the room, the janitor pulled a folded paper from his pocket. Tom noted that the document consisted of several torn scraps, pasted together with strips of transparent paper.
“This has your name on it—or at least the name Taylor,” Flack went on. “I thought it might be valuable, so I’ve been saving it for you.”