“I beg pardon, sir,” growled the Sergeant stiffly; “I’ve always been faithful to Her Majesty the Queen.”
“Of course you have, Sergeant.”
“Beg pardon, sir. You said I’d caught his complaint, meaning I was turning renegade.”
“Nothing of the kind; but you have caught his national complaint, for there you go again—blundering. Can’t you see?”
“No, sir,” said the Sergeant, drawing himself up stiffer than ever.
“Then you ought to. Blundering—making bulls. If the state of affairs was as bad as it could be yesterday, how can it be worse to-day?”
The Sergeant scratched his head, and his countenance relaxed.
“Oh!” he said thoughtfully, “of course. I didn’t see that at first, gentlemen.”
“Never mind, so long as you see it now. But go ahead, Briggs. You can’t think what it is to be lying here in hospital, with fighting going on all round, and only able to get scraps of news now and then.”
The Sergeant chuckled.