“Of course you are,” I said sharply, and dashed off at once into a fresh subject. “I say, I must go and hunt out the Sergeant. That was a nasty wound he got after you were hit.”
My words had the right effect.
“The Sergeant?” he cried. “Oh, poor old chap! we can’t spare him. Was he hurt badly?”
“Oh no, he laughed it off, just as you did your injury; but I am afraid he has lost one finger.”
“Ah, my young hero!” cried a cheery voice, and I started round and saluted, for it was the Colonel. “How’s the wound—eh?”
“Oh, it isn’t a wound, sir,” said Denham rather impatiently. “Only a bad bruise.”
“Very nearly something worse.—Morning, my lad:” this to me, and I felt the colour flush up into my cheeks. “You behaved uncommonly well last night, and we’re all very much indebted to you. Pretty good, this, for a recruit. I heartily wish you had been with us two or three months, and you should certainly have had your first stripes.”
I mumbled out something about doing my best.
“You did,” said the Colonel. “I’m sorry I spoke so hastily to you in my error. I didn’t know you two were friends.”
“We are, sir,” said Denham warmly.