“That’s right, sir; messmates is the word; but—” The man stopped.
“Well, out with it,” said Mark. “What were you going to say?”
“Well, sir,” said the man, hesitating, and he turned now to look half appealingly at Dean, “you see, sir, I am a bit weak still in the head.”
“Of course you are! Then go on getting strong.”
“Thankye, sir; that’s what I am doing,” said the man; “but I can’t help every now and then thinking that all this ’ere is too good to be true, and that as soon as Sir James and the doctor thinks that I’m all right again they will say, ‘There, my lad, you are about fit to shift for yourself, and you can go.’”
“Oh, I see,” said Mark sarcastically.
“Yes, sir, that’s it,” said the man, with a sigh.
“Now, let’s see,” said Mark, and he gave his cousin a peculiar look; “I suppose, fairly speaking, it will take about a month before you are quite right again.”
“Bless your heart, sir, not it! Fortnight, more likely; I should say about a week.”
“Well, I hope that in a month’s time—for that’s what I’ll give you; eh, Dean?”