Chapter Eight.
“I wish all this fighting would finish, Dr Martin,” said Phil one day, with a sigh. “It seems very dreadful, and my father is always away. But,” he added, “it’s very nice being near him.”
“In the midst of all this horrible excitement?”
“Yes; I don’t mind that much, only seeing the poor men brought here wounded. I say, how they like me to go and talk to them when their wounds have been tied up! Look here!”
“What have you got there?” said the Doctor, as the boy pulled something from his breast.
“Letter,” said Phil, shortly. “This makes six I’m to take care of and send when we go away.”
“Six letters?”
“Yes; they’re only written with pencil, and I don’t remember the men now who gave them to me, but they were all wounded, and they said I was to send them home.”
“Poor fellows,” said the Doctor, with a sigh.