“I couldn’t help feeling a bit upset, but I am not envious, Wyatt; only a weak, sick man. Shake hands, old fellow. I congratulate you. It was very bravely earned.”
Wyatt eagerly gripped the extended hand.
“I can’t help it, old chap,” he said huskily. “I’d rather they had given you your majority—but it’s bound to come.”
“If I live,” said Hulton sadly.
“I’ll answer for that,” said the doctor. “Only it must take time. Ten men out of twelve would have sunk under such injuries as yours, so no grumbling. You’ve done and you’re doing wonders. Wait a bit, and we’ll congratulate you in turn as we do Captain Wyatt. Darrell, you ought to go and announce this to the Rajah.”
“No, no. Nonsense!” cried Wyatt excitedly. “I’ll tell him myself next time we meet.”
“You will not,” said Hulton, “for I shall send him word myself. He ought to know. Write to him, Darrell, for me, and I’ll sign the letter.”
Wyatt made a bit of a protest, and then was silent, the letter being written and despatched by an orderly, who brought back a message that the Rajah would come and see Captain Wyatt.
The latter gentleman’s countenance was so absurdly comical that, as soon as the orderly had gone back to the stables, Dick burst into a roar of laughter, whereupon Wyatt turned to him fiercely.
“Look here, young fellow,” he cried, “do you want to quarrel?”