"Oh, only trying conclusions with an H.E., padre." The mouth smiled at the corners.
"What about a cup of tea, now? Could you drink it?"
"I'll—try, padre." The eyes twinkled a little.
So the chaplain brought a mug of stewed tea, and Penny, laughing weakly, said:
"You'll—have to pour it down—for me, padre. I can't move a muscle. These bloody bandages—sorry, padre—these bandages. O God—"
"In pain?" gently inquired the chaplain.
"No. Only a prisoner. I can't move. Pour the tea down."
He gulped a little of the drink, and, dropping the heavily-fringed eyelids, so that he appeared to be asleep, muttered:
"I suppose—I haven't a dog's chance. Find out if—I'm done for. Find out for me, please."
"I asked the doctor before I came to you, old chap."