“Your bad habit of depreciating our lads.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, nodding his head sharply. “You do, Major, and it isn’t good form to cry bad fish.”
“But it’s true,” said the Major sharply. “The War Office ought to be ashamed of itself for sending such a regiment of boys upon so arduous a task.”
“The boys are right enough,” said the Colonel. “What do you say, Bracy?”
“I say of course they are, sir.”
“Yes, because you’re a boy yourself,” said the Major in a tone which made the young man flush.
“I wish I had some more boys like you, Bracy, my lad,” said the Colonel warmly. “Graham’s a bit touched in the liver with the change from warm weather to cold. He doesn’t mean what he says—eh, Morton?”
“That’s right, Colonel,” said the Doctor. “I have my eye upon him. He’ll be asking for an interview with me to-morrow, re, as the lawyers say, B.P. and B.D.”
“Hang your B.P.s and B.D.s!” said the Major hotly. “I mean what I say, Colonel. These boys ought to have had three or four years in England before they were sent out here.”
“But they are sent up into the hills here where the climate is glorious, sir,” cried the Doctor, “and I’ll answer for it that in a year’s time they will have put on muscle in a wonderful way, while in a couple of years you’ll be proud of them.”