The colour came a little in Harry's cheeks, for the thought struck him that he had not asked after his own father.
"How are the wounded, Doctor?" said Phra.
"All doing well, my dear boy. Now then, shall I prescribe for you two?"
"No, no; we don't want anything," cried the boys in a breath.
"Yes, you do, both of you—washing. Go and tidy yourselves up, and by that time there will be a regular comfortable breakfast ready. The ladies and Mike have been busy this hour past. If we are to fight, we must eat."
The doctor walked away, and Phra turned to Harry.
"If we get over this trouble, Hal," he said solemnly, "I'll punch your head for playing me that stupid trick."
"Do, old chap—if you can," cried the boy; "but I say, is my face dirty?"
"Horribly. Is mine?"
"Well," said Harry, frowning and looking very serious, "one could hardly call it dirty, but there's a black smudge across one cheek, and a dab on your forehead, and three black finger marks on your nose."