“I don’t know; but you oughtn’t to give a poor weak fellow such a slanging as that.”
“I say,” I said, “you wished we were up the veldt shooting lions.”
“So I do,” replied Denham. “Don’t you?”
“No. I wish you and I were at my home, with old Aunt Jenny to nurse and feed us up with beef-tea and jelly, and eggs beaten up in new milk, and plenty of tea and cream and—”
“Val! Val, old chap! don’t—don’t,” cried Denham; “it’s maddening. Why, we should have feather-beds and beautiful clean sheets.”
“That we should,” I said, with a sigh; “and— Ah! here’s old Briggs.”
“Morning, gents,” said the Sergeant, pulling back the tilt curtain after entering. “Hope you’re both better.”
“Yes, ever so much, Sergeant,” cried Denham. “Here, come and sit down. Light your pipe and smoke.”
“What about the doctor, sir?” said Briggs dubiously.
“Won’t be here for an hour. I’ll give you leave. Fill and light up.”