“Oh, I got wounded in one of the little musses we had with the Germans.”
“Wounded? I didn’t know you engineers got into any fighting. I thought your job was a soft snap well behind the lines,” returned Nat Poole.
“We have had more or less fighting to do ever since we came over,” returned the young sergeant. “Even when we were at the front with the Canadians the Germans tried to rush us two or three times, and blew up one of the bridges we were building.”
“Was it much of a wound?” went on Nat curiously.
“I got a bullet through my side and another one grazed the back of my hand”; and Dave exhibited the scar left by the latter hurt. “I’ve been at the hospital for several weeks. I’m just getting ready to leave now.”
“You don’t say! Where are you going—home?”
“Home! Not much! I’m going to the front again just as fast as I can get there.”
“Well, if you were wounded as bad as you say they ought to give you a chance to go home and rest up,” continued the money lender’s son.
“But I don’t want to go home, Nat. I want to go to the front and stay there until this war is over and we have licked the Heinies out of their boots!” cried Dave. “Why, I wouldn’t miss the fun for anything!”
“You must be a queer sort, Dave Porter, to consider being shot fun,” grumbled Nat. “I guess you weren’t hurt much. Maybe you only got a scratch or two and wanted to show off,” he added, with a touch of old-time envy in his voice. At Oak Hall, Nat Poole had always envied Dave his popularity and had done everything in his power to depreciate it.