“Arm? Let’s see.”
I removed the loose tunic, and he turned up the delicate silk shirt I wore, to become wrapt at once in the interest of his profession, as he examined the wound carefully.
“Brace says you have not been hurt, does he?” cried the doctor. “Tell him to mind his guns, and not talk about what he does not understand. Why, it’s a beautiful wound, my dear boy—a splendid cut. A little more draw in the cut, and the budmash who did it would have lopped it clean off. Here, who was your surgeon?”
I told him.
“Then he is a precious clever fellow, Vincent, and I should like to know him. By George, sir, he has saved your limb. Get back it’s use? Oh yes, with care. Why, my dear fellow, I should have been proud of saving an arm like that. Here, let me help you on with your dandy jacket. So you would be Ny Deen’s artillery general, eh?”
I only gave him a look.
“Not right, boy; but I suppose you could not help yourself. There, I must go.”
We went back into the other room, where Brace, and nearly all the officers, had left.
“Father,” I said, “Captain Brace will not have me back. Can I come with you as a sort of aide-de-camp?”
“Of course. Yes, my boy; but try and keep out of danger.”