But there was always the same reply, and Colonel Lavis did not have his uniform mended, neither were any stitches added to Tom Jones’s new worsted stockings, for the corporal’s wife had all her work to do to try and save her patient’s life, and the shake of the head she gave at daybreak told more forcibly than words or the bitter tears she shed, that she had given up all hope.
Chapter Two.
The 200th was in high glee to a man, which is including about twenty men who were wounded not so badly but that they could shout “Hurrah!” For there was a brush with the retreating French, who were driven from the strong camp they had formed, and the little patient had, to use Mrs Beane’s words, “begun to pick up a bit.”
During the next week of marching and counter-marching the wounded boy began to pick up a good many bits, for the doctor had rejoined the regiment, and he did something to the little fellow’s head where beneath the cruel cut he had received the bone was dinted in, and from that hour the change was wonderful. In another week he delighted Mrs Corporal Beane by watching her constantly with wondering eyes, and suddenly asking her who she was.
In her motherly delight she told him “Mother Beane,” and he began calling her mother directly, while in another week Corporal Joe had taught the patient to call him Dad, and wondering began.
“Haven’t you asked him?” said Joe.
“Yes, as much as I dared, old man, but I’m afraid to do much, because it seems to muddle his poor dear head, and he wrinkles up and tries to think, but he can’t.”
“But don’t he remember who cut him down?” said Joe.