“Well, don’t cross bridges,” said Nick. “Sit tight, and I’ll go over there and help clean up things.”
Light-heartedly they raced up the steep hill leading from the parade ground to the mess hall.
A slim young orderly came out of the Adjutant’s office onto the terrace and looked about. Seeing the three boys, he called in a high, clear voice, “Oh, you Nosey!” and as the Greek approached added formally, “Corporal Zaidos is wanted by the Adjutant.”
“What’s he going to get ragged for now, I wonder,” mused Nickell-Wheelerson as he and Morales joined the crowd and went into the mess hall.
Zaidos did not come back. Nick watched the door anxiously. They were room-mates, and Nick was well aware of Nosey’s tendencies in the way of breaking minor rules. As soon as he could get out of the mess, he hurried down past the Adjutant’s office, and hastily framing an errand, went in. The room was empty.
Nick hurried over to the barracks to their room. Sitting on the side of his narrow bunk, his hands clenched, his face white, was Zaidos.
“What’s the row, old top?” Nick sang out cheerfully as he made a great pretense of picking up his books and stuffing a couple of pencils in the top of his pigskin puttee.
The young Greek shook his head, and Nick realized that it was something indeed very serious with him.
“What is the row, old man?” he said again, coming over and sitting beside his friend. “What has the Adjutant got in for you this time?”
“Nothing,” said Zaidos. “He had a cablegram from home. It is pretty bad, Nick....” He paused. “My father is sick; fact is, he is dying; and I’ve got to leave to-night.”