An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and he tried to shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down—“What is it? Bobby?”—
“Not that waltz,” muttered Bobby. “That's our own—our very ownest own. Mummy dear.”
With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early next morning.
Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: “So you see, darling, there is really no fear, because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you, nothing can touch me.”
Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes were redder than ever.
Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should have been tenderly treated.
“Ho!” said Private Conklin. “There's another bloomin' orf'cer dead.”
The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-grey bedgown was regarding him with deep disfavor.