wounded, but with energy enough left to smile at his nurse, who was watching by his side.
It was the next morning when, after a stupor-like sleep, Jack opened his eyes, which brightened a little as he saw who was still with him.
“Are you better, Jack?” whispered Phil, anxiously.
“Lots, boy,” was the reply; “only I want to know. Tell me—who won? No, don’t, if it was the French.”
“No, it wasn’t them,” was the quick reply. “We beat, and everyone says it is a great—great—yes, victory—that’s it.”
“Hoo-roar!” came in a faint whisper from Jack Jeens’ lips, and a smile of thankfulness lit up his face for a few moments.
But for a few moments only, for like a shadow came the recollection of something he had seen before he had fainted away from loss of blood.
He lay for a while gazing at Phil as if afraid to speak. Then summoning up his courage he whispered:
“Phil, boy, when I was shot down and you held the water for me to drink, did I dream something?”
Phil gazed back in his eyes, but did not speak, for he with the recollection fresh upon him knew what his poor messmate meant.