Colonel Austin smiled. "You must try to be willing to trust me out of your sight, my boy," he said, "just as I have to trust you when you stay behind."
"But, Colonel, jes' 'spose war should attack you, wid me fur off? How does yo' 'spec I 'se goin' ter report to de Boy an' his Mother?"
Colonel Austin saw trouble ahead unless he got G. W. into shape.
"Look here, old fellow," he replied, taking the young body-guard between his knees. "War isn't going to catch us napping. We'll know at what minute to point our guns at the enemy. We shall know and we shall obey our orders. And you'll know, and you must obey your orders, comrade. You must stay in your turret chamber, like the brave boy of old. You mustn't follow me past that point. If you do, G. W.,"—Colonel Austin had never threatened the boy before,—"unless you promise me, G. W., I'll tie the flaps of the tent upon you every time I leave it."
The childish lips quivered in an un-soldier-like way. "I'll promise, Colonel!"
"All right, then, and give us your hand. Comrade, you've taken a load from my mind."
The days following grew to be hard days for the boy, so long petted by the regiment. Food was scarce, and when there was plenty it was often of a kind that he turned from. The evenings in the tent were very long and lonely before he fell asleep. No stories now. His Colonel's absences grew more frequent and more prolonged. G. W.'s only solace was to gaze at the picture of the Boy and his Mother.
The half-mile hill became more and more every day a dread landmark. From that hated point of view he had to watch the Colonel's tall figure disappear only too often, while he stayed behind to return ingloriously to the tent. Where was the "chance" that was going to make him a hero if he must always stay behind in the place of safety? Did the Colonel think heroes were made on hill-tops a half mile from camp? G. W. grew sarcastic. He kept his buttons bright and his uniform brushed and trim; not because he loved it as when he expected to soon wear it as a hero, but because the Colonel kept himself in order—his faithful G. W. could at least follow him in that.
But at last came a thing that roused him from this mood. Fever broke out in camp, and G. W. developed into a nurse of no mean order. He carried water and bathed aching heads. Hot hands clung to him, forgetting how very small and weak he was. "Sing to us, G. W.," often those weary, suffering fellows said, "and don't give us the jig-tunes, old man, but something soft."
With his brown, childish face upraised G. W. would sing the old camp-meeting songs that his mother used to sing in the days of long ago before he had dreamed of being a hero.