“Look here, young fellows,” he said; “you’re both invalids and cripples, so I’ll wait till you’re well before I have an inquiry into your conduct in leaving the fort without leave. I’m too busy now, and you are both too weak; but it will wait a bit. This matter must be thoroughly investigated.”
“He’ll never say another word about it, Val,” prophesied Denham.
He never did.
Immediately after our interview with our Colonel, Denham and I lay in our wagon—ours by right of conquest—with the doctor looking at our injuries in evident perplexity.
“I never saw such a pair of scamps,” he said. “Why, if every man behaved in the same way the life of a regimental surgeon wouldn’t be worth living. Just as if I hadn’t enough to attend to. Always in trouble.”
“Don’t bully us, doctor,” said Denham, “we’re both in such pain.”
“Of course you are, my dear boys; so I’m going to have this wagon made into a sick-room for you.”
“Into a what?” cried Denham. “Nonsense; we want to join the ranks again to-morrow.”
“I suppose so,” said the doctor fiercely; “but—you—will—not. Your wrists are bad enough, but look at your legs.”
“Bah! Hideous!” cried Denham. “Who wants to look at them?”