“What’s that doing in here?” he inquired, jerking his head in the Russian’s direction. “Looks like one of my late captors.”
“He’s a Russian,” said Bob, speaking low, “but a Menshevik, forced in by the Bolshies.”
“Told you that, did he? I fancy he’s having you a bit.”
“No. I’m convinced he’s straight.”
“He’s spoofing you. They’re a rum lot. I suppose he’d swear to anything to get near this stove. By the way, so would I.”
“I’ll call the orderly to move you. You were frost-bitten so they didn’t dare warm you up. Miller!” Bob shouted, for bells were unknown in Nikolsk hospital.
“Good egg,” approved Alan, shivering under his blankets. He glanced toward the window, beyond which thick flakes were still falling. “I hate the sight of that snow. Polar bears, that’s what this place is fit for. Wonder if they could be trained to fight the Bolshies. Here comes someone, Bob.”
Major Greyson entered the room, casting an astonished glance at the young Britisher.
“Who says the British are reserved and distant,” he thought, approaching Alan’s cot. “Here’s this fellow calling Bob by his name after a couple of hours’ acquaintance. Well, Captain, how is it?” he asked, taking Alan’s cold hand in his. “We’ve sent word to your regiment. The wires are down but I sent a Russian messenger. You’ll have to stay here for a while and be patient.”
“No complaints, Major. I’m no end grateful to you,” said Alan, looking up at him. “Would you be good enough to move me nearer to the stove, if I’m quite thawed out?”