“I never knew such a lucky chap as you are, Bracy,” said Drummond on one occasion. “You seem to get most of the titbits and all the fat.”
Bracy’s face assumed such a peculiar aspect of perplexed wonder as he carefully shifted his injured leg so as not to jar his wound while moving, and he directed such a questioning look at Roberts that the latter burst into a roar of laughter.
“What is it?” said Drummond. “Have I said something stupid—a bull?”
“More like the bleat of an innocent calf,” said Roberts—“eh, Bracy?”
“Oh, all right; chaff away, old chaps. But, I say, I hear that there are a lot of supplies coming up the pass—mule-loads and loads. There’s sure to be a bullock-trunk for me, and I shall be able to get out of you fellows’ debt.”
“Our debt?” said Bracy. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Oh, don’t I? What about those boots?”
One morning, when Bracy was getting on towards convalescence, Gedge, who was acting as invalid servant, entered the homely room holding out one arm.
“Why, Gedge!” cried Bracy; “the sergeant’s chevrons?”
“That’s right, sir,” cried their owner proudly. “Youngest sergeant in the ridgement, Colonel says, and that he was proud to give me my promotion.”