I thought there seemed something like a blush upon her cheek as she spoke; but I told her that T. S. was some one I cared a great deal about.
“Is she pretty?” asked Tiny.
“She!” I answered; “it isn’t any girl; it’s my chum, Tom, you know.”
Then she really colored; and a little while afterward I remembered that those were her initials. How she must have hated me,—perhaps!
I have eaten a real breakfast at last, and am upon my feet again. The Professor has gone, and I am going at once. How curious it will be to come out of this dream, and go back again to work! The doctor begs me not to get excited, and yet tells me that in three days I shall be as well as ever. I have been excited for a year now, and I go to the front this very afternoon. I am rather thin, and my shirt feels something like an air-box; but I shall get over all that soon. We are to make an attack before long, I understand.
I am back in camp. This is the last entry that I shall make in this note-book for some time to come. I am alarmed a little about Tom. I think he is going to be sick; he seems excited and feverish, and yet dull. However, he has brightened up wonderfully since I told him about the Professor’s intention; and I am not sure but that it was a dreadful homesickness that oppressed him when I first met him. He won’t see a doctor; he laughs the idea to scorn, and says he is only tired and overworked, and that, if I can manage to secure him a little rest, he will soon be all right. But he is dying to see his mother, he confesses to me, and I am not surprised to hear it.
I said that this is the last entry I shall make here. I am not sure now but that these are the last words which I shall ever write. I take charge of a small expedition to-night, with men whom I have personally selected for the purpose; and we are to destroy the bridge above here. It must be done at once. Jackson is near there, and we expect and fear an attack from him. The work is delicate rather than difficult; but it is sufficiently dangerous for me to commend my soul to God before I start upon it. Good-by, little note-book, perhaps forever. If Tom and I return safe,—and Tom will, I am sure,—why, then, perhaps, I may tell you all about this coming night’s work; but, if not, you will be destroyed, unread; and so farewell.