"Can't you recollect where you got it?" asked Dick again.
Toots shook his head.
"It's like—like the time you asked me about his picture," he said, pointing to the photo on the mantle. "I get all sort of confused in my head. Maybe I always had it. Maybe someone gave it to me when I was janitor at the fort out west."
"What fort was that?"
"I've forgotten. It's a good while ago. But don't lose that medal, Mr. Hamilton. I'm going to wear it."
"Poor Toots," thought Dick. "All the medals in the world will never make you a good shot."
He put the badge carefully away, resolving to ask Major Webster, at the first opportunity, from what military post it was likely to have come.
Thanks to the jolly companionship of Toots, Christmas was not as gloomy as Dick had feared it would be. The dinner over the janitor left Dick to himself, and our hero fell into a refreshing sleep. When he awoke he felt much better, and the doctor said he could be out in a couple of days, if the weather moderated.
The first of the year dawned; a fine bracing day, and, as there was no biting wind, Dick was allowed to stroll about the campus a short time. This brought the color to his cheeks, and completed the cure begun by the surgeon's medicine.
"Well, things will be lively a week from to-night," said Toots one day, as he came in to make up Dick's room.