Bob’s prediction was verified almost to the letter. Supper that night consisted of bread, boiled potatoes and beefsteak, served by a new detail of kitchen men. Not one of the old detail was on duty, which went to prove that they were either ill or had been held on suspicion.
The three Khaki Boys never forgot that particular meal. Each felt that every mouthful of food he ate might contain a fatal dose of poison. Iggy’s absence also greatly added to their depression. All hoped for the best, yet feared the worst. The same heavy oppression clutched their comrades, who alike had bunkies of their own to worry over.
Bob returned to barracks with Roger and Jimmy, only to sally forth again on his quest for news. Jimmy was anxious to go with him, but for once Bob did not desire company. “Bobby’s got to go it by himself,” he objected. “You’re a lovely young corporal, Blazes, but you don’t fit into my plan. ‘He travels fastest who travels alone,’ you know. Any other time I’d be delighted, but, to quote our dear, I won’t say departed, Iggy, ‘no now.’”
Tattoo had sounded before Bob reappeared, his black eyes glittering with suppressed excitement. “I’ve had a busy evening,” he announced, as Jimmy and Roger began hurling eager questions at him. “Pile onto my cot and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Fire away,” ordered Jimmy impatiently as the three gathered together, eager to hear what Bob had discovered.
“First of all, Iggy’s better.” Bob beamed, as he told this important news. “He wasn’t nearly so sick as the rest. He may be back here to-morrow night.”
“Hooray!” rejoiced Jimmy, though in a very moderate tone.
“That’s fine!” Roger’s sober features grew radiant.
“Simpson’s gone west.” The light faded from Bob’s face.