"
Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that the post-
runner plashed his way out to the camp with the mail-bags, for the
rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off
to his tent, and, the programme for the next week's Sing-song
being satisfactorily disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an
hour the unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment
rose to more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck out his
tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to letter-writing.
"Beg y' pardon, sir," said a voice at the tent door; "but Dormer's
'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir."
"Damn Private Dormer and you too!" said Bobby Wick, running the
blotter over the half-finished letter. "Tell him I'll come in the
morning."
"'E's awful bad, sir," said the voice hesitatingly. There was an
undecided squelching of heavy boots.
"Well?" said Bobby impatiently.
"Excusin' 'imself before 'and for takin' the liberty, 'e says it
would be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if -
"
tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of the rain till I'm
ready. What blasted nuisances you are! That's brandy. Drink some;
you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell me if I go too fast.
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