“Wound, sir?” he replied. “I haven’t got any wound.”
“Then why is your arm in a sling?”
“Oh, that, sir? That’s a bit of the doctor’s nonsense. He said I was to keep it on, so I suppose I must. But it isn’t a wound.”
“What is it, then?” said Denham sharply.
“Bullet cut my finger; that’s all.”
“Did it cut it much?” asked Denham.
“Took a little bit off, and I went to the doctor for a piece o’ sticking-plaster, and he as good as called me a fool.”
“What did you say, then, to make him?”
“I said nothing, sir, only that I wanted the plaster.”
“Did he give you some?”