“Yes.”
Bracy lay for a few minutes letting the snow melt in his mouth; then calmly enough he went on:
“I’ve got a bad wrench, my lad. My ankle must have doubled under me when I fell. There’s no help for it; we have had nothing but misfortunes from the start, but this is the culmination—the worst of all.”
“Is it, sir? I’m glad o’ that.”
“Glad?”
“Yes, sir; ’cause, you see, when things comes to the worst they begins to mend. So will your leg if you let me get the puttee and boot off. If you don’t I shall be ’bliged to cut it off before long.”
“Go on; you’re quite right, my lad,” said Bracy calmly; and as the young soldier eagerly busied himself over the frightfully swollen place, unwinding the bandages, which cut down into the flesh, and unlacing the boot, he went on talking calmly:
“About this boot, sir; I’ve unlaced it as far as I can, and it’s quite fast on. Shall I cut it or will you try and bear a wrench?”
“Don’t cut it, my lad. Give a quiet, firm drag. I’ll bear the pain as well as I can.”
The next moment the boot was off, and Bracy lay with his eyes closed.