“My grandmother! It’s your weakness to say so. We’re made of too good stuff for that. Why, you were as bad as I was when the hospital orderly washed us. Bah! How I do hate being washed by a man!”
“Better than nothing,” I said. “We can’t have women-nurses.”
“No,” said Denham. “But what was I saying when you interrupted so rudely? Really, Val Moray, I shall report your behaviour to the Colonel. You’re not respectful to your officer. You’re always forgetting that you are a private.”
“Always,” I replied, with what was, I fear, a very pitiful smile, for my companion looked at me very sympathetically and shook his head.
“Poor old chap!” he said; “I am sorry for you. There, he shall be disrespectful to his officer when he isn’t on duty. I say, old chap, I wish you and I were far away on the veldt shooting lions again. It’s far better fun than fighting wild Boers.”
“What a poor old joke!” I said.
“Best I can do under these untoward circumstances, dear boy,” he said. “Yes, it’s a ‘wusser.’ I wish I could say something good that would make you laugh. But to ‘return to our muttons,’ as the French say. About being so weak. You and I have no business to shut up like a couple of rickety two-foot rules when we are set up on end. It’s disgusting, and I’m sure it’s old Duncombe’s fault.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“Well, I say I am, just by way of argument. It’s all wrong, and I’ve been lying here and thinking out the reason. I’ve got it.”
“I got it without any thinking out at all,” I said.