"I'm his cousin, sir," added Tom.
The Captain dismissed the messenger with a nod. "You're Corporal Brewster's cousin, eh?"
"Corporal?" asked Tom.
The Captain laughed. "I thought that would surprise you. Yes, he was made Corporal last week. You'll find him in the third tent on your left. I don't suppose you know that he's on the sick list with a bad ankle?"
"No!"
"Yep."
"I hope it isn't serious."
"Hm-m-m"—the Captain stroked his chin—"no, the ankle isn't serious, but being on the sick list is. Run along and cheer him up. Tell him that I'll be down to see him in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir."
The Captain turned back to the doctor, and Tom threaded his way down the street. At the third tent he stopped, pulled open the flap and peered in. There was Bert, stretched out on his bedding, writing a letter. His right ankle was a mass of bandages from which his toes peered out. He did not look up from his writing.