“Well,” said Tom, lifting himself up onto a packing case and forcing a patience which he did not feel, “that’s strike two. And I thought when we came up here that you were going to knock a home run.”
“I guess home is the right word,” said Wilfred.
“Yes, if you want to be a quitter,” said Tom.
“There don’t seem to be any more patrols for me to go into,” Wilfred observed cynically.
“You didn’t think it worth while to tell them, did you?” Tom asked wearily. “I mean that you have something the matter with you.”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” Wilfred said proudly. It was odd how such a fine spirit could bear misjudgment and humiliation. He seemed to feel that the greatest disgrace of all was having some physical weakness. “Do you think I’m an Archie Dennison?” he demanded.
“No, not quite as bad as that,” Tom laughed.
“It’s only on account of you I feel bad; I don’t care about anybody else,” said Wilfred.
“I should think you’d care about the Elks,” Tom said rather coldly; “they’re pretty nice fellows. You left them up in the air—guessing. What do you expect? Do you think everybody is to be sacrificed just because you don’t want folks to know you have to be careful about your health?”
“Don’t you worry about my health,” said Wilfred.