“Clothes, eh?” said the doctor, smiling. “Oh, you will not want clothes for two or three weeks yet.”
“Not to dress, sir,” whispered West excitedly; “but I must have my jacket. It is important!”
“Why?” said the surgeon, laying his hand upon the young man’s brow soothingly.
“I was bringing on a despatch from Mafeking when I was shot down, sir,” whispered West excitedly.
“It was sewn up for safety in the breast.”
“Indeed?” said the doctor, laying his fingers on the lad’s pulse and looking keenly in his eyes.
“Yes, sir, indeed!” said West eagerly. “I know what I am saying, sir.”
“Yes, you are cool now; but I’m afraid the jacket will have been burned with other garments of the kind. Of course, the contents of the pockets will have been preserved.”
“Oh, they are nothing, sir,” cried West piteously. “It is a letter sewn up in the breast that I want. It is so important!”
“Well, I’ll see!” said the doctor gravely, and, signing to the nurse who had been in attendance, he left the ward, with West in a state of feverish anxiety.