Poor Corporal Flynn! His days of soldiering were nearly over!
Whether it was the excess of strong feeling raised in the poor fellow’s breast by the news of the grand and unexpected legacy, or the excitement caused by the arrival of so many splendid troops and the prospect of immediate action—or all put together—we cannot say, but certain it is that the corporal fell sick, and when the doctors examined the men with a view to decide who should march to the front, and who should remain to guard the town, he was pronounced unfit for active service. Worse than that, he was reported to have entered upon that journey from which no traveller returns.
But poor Flynn would not admit it, though he grew weaker from day to day. At last it was reported that he was dying, and Sergeant Hardy got leave to go off to the hospital ship to see him, and convey to him many a kind message from his sorrowful comrades, who felt that the regiment could ill spare his lively, humorous spirit.
The sergeant found him the picture of death, and almost too weak to speak.
“My dear fellow,” said Hardy, sitting down by his cot and gently taking his hand, “I’m sorry to see you like this. I’m afraid you are goin’ to leave us.”
The corporal made a slight motion with his head, as if of dissent, and his lips moved.
Hardy bent his ear over them.
“Niver a bit, owld man,” whispered Flynn.
“Shall I read the Bible to you, lad?” inquired the sergeant.
The corporal smiled faintly, and nodded.