“There’d be nothing left of it,” declared Phil. “Better let well enough alone. It’ll last for some years yet—as long as we are in Randall.”
“Did you send the message?” blurted out Tom.
“Yes, and now I’ll wait for an answer.”
“Is it—will they have to—I mean—of course there’s some danger in an operation,” stammered Sid, blushing like a girl.
“Yes,” admitted Phil gravely. “It is very dangerous. I don’t exactly know what it is, but before she went away our family doctor said that if it came to an operation it would be a serious one. Now—now it seems that it’s time for it. Dear old mother—I—I hope——” He was struggling with himself. “Oh, hang it all!” he suddenly burst out. “Let’s get this room to rights. If—if I go away I’ll have the nightmare thinking what shape it’s in. Let’s fix up a bit, and then go out and take a walk. Then it will be grub time. After that we’ll go out and see if any more fellows have arrived.”
It was good advice—just the thing needed to take their attention off Phil’s grief, and they fell to work with a will. In a short time the room began to look something like those they had left.
“Here, what are you sticking up over there?” called Sid to Tom, as he detected the latter in the act of tacking something on the wall.
“I’m putting up a photograph,” said Tom.
“A girl’s, I’ll bet you a new hat.”
“Yes,” said Tom simply. “Why, you old anchorite, haven’t I a right to? It’s a pity you wouldn’t get a girl yourself!”