“No, but as I said before, you are a tough specimen. This lad looks rather frail, though it’s true that delicate-looking young Britishers show lots of endurance. Bring more snow, Miller. His foot is about frozen.”
The Britisher stirred, opened his eyes and almost at once, in a voice that trembled with weakness, began to speak.
“Went off, did I? Send word to my regiment, ah—Major—won’t you?”
“Will you keep quiet?” demanded Major Greyson. “Give your heart a chance to pick up.”
“Right-o. Got clean away anyhow—didn’t I? I was afraid for a bit I wouldn’t pull it off. I——”
The surgeon discovered a white spot at the tip of his patient’s ear. He clapped a handful of snow against it. The young officer gasped and for a moment subsided.
“I’ll have to stuff his mouth with snow, next,” muttered Major Greyson. “I wonder if he’s a bit delirious.”
Bob smiled, feeling a secret liking for the cocky young Britisher who now, his cot pushed into the coldest corner of the room, lay squirming under Major Greyson’s pitiless snow-rubbing.
“Frost-nipped, am I, what?” he gasped after a moment. “I say—got a bit of snow down my throat that time, Major.”
“Captain, will you obey my orders and stop talking?” demanded the surgeon with exasperated calm.