“Ugh!” cried Denham. “Mine are horrid.” I winced again.
“Your muscles are recovering their tone.”
“I can hardly move without pain,” groaned Denham. I screwed up my face in sympathy.
“Your bruises dying out.”
“Doctor!” shouted Denham, “do you think I haven’t looked at myself? I’m horrible.”
This time I groaned.
“How do you know? You haven’t got a looking-glass, surely?”
“No; but I’ve seen my wretched face in a bucket of water,” cried Denham.
“Bah! Conceited young puppy! And compared notes, too, both of you, I’ll be bound.”
“Of course we have, lying about here with nothing to do but suffer and fret. You don’t seem to do us a bit of good.”