“No wonder,” I replied, smiling. “You’re not made of cast-iron.”
“Here, I say, you fellow,” he cried; “just you keep your position. None of your insolence, please. Recollect that you’re only a raw recruit, and I’m your officer.”
“Certainly,” I said, smiling. “I thought we were both volunteers.”
“So we are, old fellow, off duty; but it must be officer and private on duty. I say, tell me, though, about the boys and the Sergeant. Did they sneer?”
“Sneer?” I cried indignantly. “You’re insulting the brave fellows. They carried you down splendidly, and I believe there wasn’t a man here who wouldn’t have died for you.”
“But—but,” he said huskily, “they must have thought me very weak and girlish.”
“I must have thought so too—eh?”
“Of course,” he said, in a peculiar way.
“Then, of course, I didn’t,” I cried warmly; “I thought you the bravest, pluckiest fellow I had ever seen.”
“Lay it on thick, old fellow,” he said huskily; “butter away. Can’t you think of something a little stronger than plucky and brave—and—don’t take any notice of me, Val, old lad. I’m a bit weak this morning.”