"Great Scott!"
"No, it's only Johnny Stewart," said the boy, a faint flash of humor lighting up his pale face for a moment. "I couldn't sleep—tell me—is she—worse?"
"She's a pretty sick little girl," said the surgeon, amused at the situation. "Your mother has been expecting trouble from your quarter, but she rather looked for it from Rob."
"He's asleep," said the boy, simply, "I sat with him until he went to sleep, but—you know I'm the oldest, and I'm responsible for it all." He looked up gravely, self-accusing, in the post surgeon's weather-beaten face.
"Well, you're a pair of you!" said the surgeon, looking hard at the flagstaff. "Now, what do you propose to do with yourself?"
"You couldn't slip me in, somehow?" pleaded the boy. "I'd stay down stairs and I'd be awfully quiet and I wouldn't trouble a soul. There might be errands—" he broke off, "I'd like to be near her," he said. "Do you think you could manage it?"
The post surgeon thought he could, and the post surgeon did.
Then he started once more to cross the parade grounds.
As he passed the flagstaff and entered the shadows of the trees, a small whirlwind struck him. The whirlwind proved to be Rob. He was only half dressed: his shirt being open at the throat and devoid of tie. One stocking had been forgotten in his haste and he was hatless. The surgeon caught him by his hair and pulled him back.
Then the whirlwind developed into a small tornado.