"Have you been here all night, you young ass?" said the Doctor.
"There or thereabouts," said Bobby ruefully. "He's frozen on to
me."
Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his head and sighed.
The clinging hand opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his
side.
"He'll do," said the Doctor quietly. "It must have been a toss-up
all through the night. 'Think you're to be congratulated on this
case."
"Oh, bosh!" said Bobby. "I thought the man had gone out long ago -
only - only I didn't care to take my hand away. Rub my arm down,
there's a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the
marrow!" He passed out of the tent shivering.
Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by
strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and
said to the patients mildly: "I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im -
so I should."
But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter, - he had
the most persistent correspondent of any man in camp, - and was
even then about to write that the sickness had abated, and in
another week at the outside would be gone. He did not intend to
say that the chill of a sick man's hand seemed to have struck into
the heart whose capacities for affection he dwelt on at such
length.
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