“Right-o,” said Dolly, cheerfully. “Or why not go together?”
“No, no,” said Steve, hastily. “I—she’ll be saying thank-you things, and that’s sort of embarrassing for both of us.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dolly. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. Beastly thing bein’ thanked. Glad it isn’t me, y’know, that has to have ’em.”
“P’raps you’ll get a share,” said Steve.
“G’ Lord—me—what for?” said Dolly, in a panic. Then he grinned sheepishly. “I see. You’re pullin’ my leg.”
“Well, you’ll get some thanks from me when I come back,” said Steve, “—or a broken head,” he added grimly.
Dolly looked at him in some doubt. “All right, old chap. But—er—I say, Steve—you think you’re all right—eh? Don’t mind me mentionin’ it, I hope, but—er—well, you’ve been tankin’ up all mornin’, y’ know. You’re all right, eh?”
Steve laughed at him. “I’m going out now to put my head in the trough and freshen up generally,” he said, “though I feel all right, and then I’ll let you see me stand on one leg and walk a chalk line, and give me tongue-twister sentences to say, or undergo any test of sobriety you like.”
“Oh, you look all right,” said Dolly, consolingly, “only I didn’t quite follow that broken-head remark.”
“You wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Steve, and went and washed and soused his head as he had said.