Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the time
that had been set for receiving him.
"Isn't this the tenth?" the old man mumbled.
"No," said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and
Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, "it's only the 9th."
"Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie."
And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie,
nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night of
November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and there
was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his eyes
should next open.
"He can't live till morning, that's sure," said the doctor.
"But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after
twelve o'clock," said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained him
in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend.
"Quite probably," replied the doctor.
"Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the
11th. The monument will be wrong."
"Oh, that won't matter," said the niece.
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