In due time Cecil rode back the pony which John had taken up. The
alacrity with which the long lank bending figure stepped to meet him
was something unwonted, but the boy himself was downcast and
depressed.
"I'm afraid you've nothing good to tell."
Cecil shook his head, and after some more seconds broke out—-
"It's awful!"
"What is?"
"Brownlow's pain. I never saw anything like it!"
"Rheumatism? If that is from the exposure, I hope it will not last
long."
"No. They've sent for some opiates to Leukerbad, and the doctor says
that is sure to put him to sleep."
"Medlicott stays there?"
"Yes. He says if little Armine is any way fit, he must move him away
to-morrow at all risks from the night-cold up there, and he wants
Reeves to see about men to carry him, that is if—-if to-night does
not—-"
Cecil could not finish.
"Then it is as bad as we heard?"
"Quite," said Cecil, "or worse. That dear little chap, just fancy!"
and his eyes filled with tears. "He tried to thank me for having
been good to him-—as if I had."
"He was your fag?"
"Yes; Skipjack asked me to choose him because he's that sort of
little fellow that won't give into anything that goes against his
conscience, and if one of those fellows had him that say lower boys
have no business with consciences, he might be licked within an inch
of his life and he'd never give in.
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