It was the fourth day before anxiety began to lessen its grip; the fifth, the sixth, before Doctor Wendell would begin to speak confidently. Through it all the words of the "Charge" beat in Arthur Thorndyke's brain till it seemed to him that if David died he should never hear anything else. For they were constantly on the boy's lips.
Finally, on the morning of Saturday, Arthur said to David: "Major, this is the day for you to say the last lines. You know this afternoon the 'Six Hundred' are going by. You'll hear the band play, and Uncle Chester and Uncle Stephen will be marching in the ranks. Stuart and I will be there, too, somewhere, and I think if we can just prop you up a little bit you'll be able to see at least the heads of the men. And you can salute, you know, even if they can't see you."
"After the procession are you going to speak to them?" asked David.
Arthur smiled. "After some sort of fashion I'm going to open my mouth," he said. "I hardly know myself what will come out. All I do know is, I never had quite so much respect for the courage that faces the cannon's mouth as now. And it's you, Major, who are the pluckiest soldier I know."
He smiled down at the white little face, its great gray eyes staring up at him.
"Uncle Arthur—but—but—I wasn't plucky—all the time. Sometimes—it hurt so I—had to cry."
The words were a whisper, but Uncle Arthur still smiled. "That doesn't count, Major," he said. "Now I must go. Watch for the band."
Away in the distance, by and by, came the music. As it approached, mingled with it David could hear the sound of marching feet. His mother and the Red Cross nurse propped his head up a very little, so that he could see into the street. Louder and louder grew the strains, then stopped; the drums beat.
"Oh, they're not going to play as they go by!" cried David, disappointed.
The tramp of the marching feet came nearer. Suddenly the band burst with a crash into the "Star-Spangled Banner." David's eyes shone with delight.