“Jack! Are you asleep?”
Farren’s lids flashed up and he blinked dazedly. Beside the cot a boy of fifteen looked down on him—a red-cheeked, dark-eyed boy with snow powdering his mackinaw and clinging to hair and lashes. Farren’s eyes widened, his lips parted in a smile.
“Why, Micky!” he cried, struggling to a sitting posture. “When did you blow in?”
“This minute. I’ve just come from the hospital.” He caught the man’s thin, white fingers and squeezed them tightly. “Gee! but I’m glad to see you out, Jack!” he exclaimed. “It’s been perfect ages.”
Farren smiled wrily. “It has that,” he agreed. “I began to think they were going to keep me there forever.”
“How are you feeling?” asked McBride, sitting down on the side of the cot. “A little rocky yet?”
“Sort of,” nodded Farren. “I’ll pick up, though, in a day or so. It—it just seems a little queer getting back and finding—”
A roar of laughter came from the far corner of the room and he broke off, wincing unconsciously. The boy, following the direction of his glance, nodded comprehendingly.
“I know,” he said in a low tone. “It’s beastly! But maybe they’ll send you after them. We—we saw them off at the station. It was great, but it made me feel—sort of queer. They gave us all sorts of messages for you—Dick and Mac and Bruce, and all the others. They said—”
He paused. Farren had turned abruptly and was staring out at the driving snow. For a moment the boy hesitated. Then one hand reached out and gently touched the other’s sleeve. A moment later, his voice, elaborately casual, broke the silence.