“I’m Robert Shirtliffe,” he whispered, “call me Bob, you can remember that?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, “and oh; but I am glad to see you Bob!”
“That’s right,” Shirtliffe gave a half laugh, “if you ever think you are going to forget, Jack Martin, run away or do something—you understand?”
“Ye—e—s Bob!”
“Did you have a bad time getting here?”
“Ye—es, Bob—I’ve been trying for months. Have you found him?” Jack bent closer. In the darkness he could not see Robert’s face, but he felt the boy grasp his hand, then a hot tear startled him.
“What’s—the—matter—Bob?”
“Bend down, Jack, let me cry just once. He’s dead, Jack, dead! He was shot by a Britisher who looks so like me, that I have got to find him. There isn’t anything left in all the world Jack, except for me to find the other boy!”
“Some one is coming! Here, Bob—laugh, swear,—do anything,—but cry.”
Robert sat up, and threw off the blanket which thoughtful hands had laid over him. The man approaching was an officer and had come to thank the boy who had ridden so nobly and so well to bear the welcome news; but ere he reached the crouching pair upon the ground a volley of distant firing rent the still air. Again, and again it came.