“That’s it, sir. And I says to him, I says, ‘Look at me, sir. Just afore I got my blue pill—leastwise it warn’t a blue pill, but a bit o’ iron—I was good for a five-and-twenty mile march on the level or a climb from eight hay-hem to eight pee-hem, while now four goes up and down the orspital ward and I’m used up.’ He’s getting on though, sir. You can see it when you cheers him up.”
“Yes; I noticed that,” said Roberts.
“Specially if you talks about paying them roughs out for shooting at us that day as they did.”
“Ha! cowardly in the extreme.”
“Warn’t it, sir? When we’re up and at it, we lads, we’re not very nice; but fire at a poor beggar carrying his wounded orficer—why, I wouldn’t think one of ours ’d do such a thing—let alone believe it.”
“Of course they would not, my lad,” said Roberts. “There, I’m glad to hear about how well you attend to Mr Bracy.”
He nodded, and went on to his quarters, wondering to himself over what had taken place at Bracy’s bedside.
“It was very queer,” he thought; “but it shows one thing—the poor fellow’s a good deal off his head at times, or he wouldn’t have hit out at me like that; and it shows, too, that all his ideas about being so weak are fancy. That crack on the back didn’t come from a weak arm. But it’s all due to the wound, and it would be better not to say anything to him about it.”