“Good enough, sir!” replied Roy, with the prompt cheerfulness which from the first had marked him out in Moore’s eyes. “If only Captain Keene——”
“Ay! You are anxious about Keene.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been able to find out nothing.”
“So Napier informed me. I was passing this way, and I have looked in to tell you. He is prisoner.”
Roy drew one hasty breath. Till that moment he had not realised how heavily the fear had weighed upon him of other than imprisonment. To be aware that Jack was still in the land of the living meant much.
“Two French prisoners brought in this afternoon have told us about him. His leg was wounded and his right arm broken, and when helpless he was taken. Already, they say, he has been sent some distance beyond their lines.”
“Thank you, sir!”—gratefully. “I’m glad to know. It might have been worse.”
“You are writing home, perhaps. Make light of his wounds. I hope he is not in any danger.”
“Yes, sir. I am writing to my sister.”
Moore stood for a few seconds, lost in deep thought. Then, glancing up, he met the concerned gaze of Roy’s frank grey eyes. Not frank only, not concerned only, but full of unmistakable boyish adoration. In response, Moore’s hand was laid on Roy’s arm, with one of those quick gestures of overflowing kindness, which went far to enthral the hearts of those about him.