Give me something to help me get a grip on myself
again, for I can't spend time to be ill."
The doctor remonstrated; but Weldon's answer was peremptory.
"I tell you, I can't stop. Give me something and let me go. I've
work at Lindley that must be done, and a convoy leaves in an hour."
An hour later he was trudging over the veldt in the direction of
Lindley. Lindley was forty miles away; the roads were dusty, and the
sun of early February struck down upon him with the heat of a
belated summer. Nevertheless, at Lindley was his squadron, and with
his squadron would be work. Never in all his past life had Weldon
known this imperative need for work. In it now, and in its
accompanying excitement and in its inevitable risk, would lie his
ultimate salvation. For him, the future held but one plain duty, and
that duty was to forget.
The experienced eye of the doctor had told him that the gaunt
trooper was a sick man; it had also told him that the trooper's
determination would outweigh his sickness, at least for the present
crisis. He made no effort to penetrate the cause of that
determination. He merely yielded to it. A doctor less wise would
have ordered Weldon into bed.
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