Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy-cold hand closed on his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the little finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the water dripping from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed, and the grasp of the hand did not relax, nor did the expression of the drawn face change. Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot with the left hand (his right arm was numbed to the elbow), and resigned himself to a night of pain. Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on the side of a sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language unfit for publication. “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. He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the forthcoming Sing-song, whereof he was not a little proud. He also intended to write on many other matters which do not concern us, and doubtless would have done so but for the slight feverish headache which made him dull and unresponsive at mess. “You are overdoing it, Bobby,” said his skipper. “'Might give the rest of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were the whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy.” “I will,” said Bobby. “I'm feeling done up, somehow.” Revere looked at him anxiously and said nothing. There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and a rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers, and the rush of a galloping horse. “Wot's up?” asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the answer--“Wick, 'e's down.” They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. “Any one but Bobby and I shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right.”