No, dash it, I had a devilish headache and my mouth had that gummy, warm-varnish taste—you know! The sunlight lay across the floor, and outside I could hear the jolly birds twittering among their what's-its-names. Jenkins stood by the foot of the bed and somehow had a gloomy look. He cleared his throat, and I had a feeling that he had already done it several times. I raised to my elbow, mouthing at him heavily.
"Morning, sir!" He said it very gently—I thought solicitously. "How do you feel, sir?" This last in the kind of tone you use when the chap's going to die to-morrow, don't you know, and doesn't know it yet himself.
I mumbled reply, gulping down the glass of ice-water he tendered.
He rubbed his hands one over the other and stooped above me anxiously.
"I hope, sir, you're not in much pain—from last night, sir, I mean?"
"Pain?" I ejaculated crossly. "Why should I be in pain? Don't be a silly ass!"
"Yes, sir!"—very softly, and with a deep sigh as he dropped back. By Jove, he looked as cheerful as a jolly tombstone!
"What the deuce—" I began.
"Noth—nothing, sir!"—hastily—"I was just a-thinking of the—h'm—may I say scrimmage, sir?"
I waited till I had taken from his hand the second glass of ice-water and swallowed it, thinking maybe I would get hold of it—the dashed idea, I mean.