"Twelve inches make one foot, six feet make one man, sixty men make
one troop, four troops make one squadron," the monotonous voice ran
on. Then it came to an unexpected finale. "And three squadrons make
the Boer army run."
The man in the next bed giggled. His wound was in his shoulder, and
it had left his sense of humor unimpaired. As a rule, the fighting
records of the wounded never came inside that long, bed-bordered
room; but there were few within it now who were ignorant of the
plucky ride made by the lean, boyish-looking Canadian trooper. A
part of the story had come by way of the doctor in charge of the
ambulance train which had brought him from Krugersdorp to
Johannesburg, a part of it had come from the trooper's own lips, and
that was the most tragic part of it all.
Below, in the courtyard of the hospital, Kruger Bobs squatted on his
heels in the sun and waited. Now and then, he vanished to look after
the creature comforts of The Nig and the little gray broncho; now
and then he shuffled forward to demand news from some passer-by
whose sleeve was banded with the Red-Cross badge. Then he shuffled
back to his former post and sat himself down on his heels once more.
Kruger Bobs possessed the racial traits which make it an easy matter
to sit and wait for news. He was also an optimist. Nevertheless, his
face now was overcast and rarely did it vanish behind the spreading
limits of his smile.
For four days, Weldon lay prostrate and babbled of all things, past,
present and to come. Three names dotted his babblings. One was that
of his mother, one of his captain, and the third that of Ethel Dent.
With all three of them, he appeared to be upon the best of terms.
Finally, on the fifth day, he suddenly waked to the fact that a
woman was bending above him, to wipe his face with a damp sponge.
He was too weak to rise. Nevertheless, he straightened himself into
a rigid line, and addressed her with dignity.
"I beg your pardon. Please don't wash my face for me," he said, in
grave displeasure.
She smiled down at him, with the air of a mother smiling at a
fretful child. The smile irritated him.
"Doesn't it refresh you?" she asked quietly.
"No," he answered, with flat, ungracious, mendacity.
"I am sorry. You have been sleeping heavily, and--"
He felt his mind slipping out of his own grasp, and he strove to
hold it in his keeping.
"No matter now," he interrupted hastily. "Please get me--"