Mr. Penton came, remained a short time, then went away; he, too, convinced that Rush could not recover. Night came on, but still Bob sat beside the hospital cot, one hand slipped under the sheet clasping a hand of his companion.
"You had better go home," said the surgeon, seeming for the first time to be aware of Jarvis' presence.
Bob did not answer.
"I said, you had better go home, Jarvis."
"I want to stay," answered the boy simply.
"You can do him no good."
"When will he get better—or worse?"
"I do not look for any change before three o'clock in the morning or thereabouts, so you see it will be useless for you to remain."
"All right; I am not sleepy," and Bob turned his face toward the cot, again fixing his gaze on the face of the unconscious Steve.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders and proceeded with his duties. The hours dragged along, but Bob never changed his position nor even moved, so fearful was he of doing something that might retard his friend's recovery. Three o'clock came and still there was no change. Another half hour elapsed. The sky was graying in the east. Steve uttered a low moan. The surgeon was at his side in an instant. He placed an ear to the boy's heart, then took his pulse, watch in hand. Bob's eyes were fixed on the surgeon now. The latter shut his watch with a snap, then noting the pleading question in the watcher's eyes, he nodded.