The doctor smiled, and looked hard at the grumbler.
“Won’t you, Denham?” he said. “Oh yes, you will; and you’re going to have bits of steak to-day, frizzled on ramrods.”
“Over a bone fire!” cried Denham. “I’m sick of it all.”
“Come, come, come! you’re getting ever so much stronger, both of you.”
“But are we really, doctor?” I said; “or are you saying this to cheer us up?”
“Ask yourselves, boys. You know as well as I do that you are. Climb up on the wall this morning and sit in the sunshine; but mind you keep well in shelter. I don’t want one of the Boers to undo in a moment what has taken me so long to do.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Denham dismally. “We’re poor sort of machines—always getting out of order.”
“Have you two been falling out?” said the doctor, turning to me.
“No,” I said; “we haven’t had a word. Denham’s in rather a bad temper this morning.”
“Why, you impudent beggar!” he cried, “for two pins I’d punch your head.”