“Groaning? Why, I was singing,” cried Bob, indignantly.
“Oh, were you? I shouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told me. But, I say, I wouldn’t sing any more if I were you, Bob. It isn’t in your way.”
“Get out! Sing as well as you can. There, don’t lie shamming being sick any more, because you are quite well thankye, or you wouldn’t begin chaffing.”
“But have I been ill? Why, my voice sounds queer, doesn’t it?”
“Queer? It sounds just like a penny whistle, while mine’s as solid as a big trombone.”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind about that, old chap. We’ll soon feed you up, old Whitney and I. Make you strong as a horse again. Van, old cockalorum, I am glad.”
And to show his delight, Bob Howlett executed a kind of triumphal dance, ending with a stamp.
“Don’t be an idiot, Bob,” said Mark, feebly. “Come close here. I want to know what’s been the matter. Has there been a fight, and was I wounded?”
“No!” cried Bob. “Why, what an old stuffy head you are. Don’t you understand? Can’t you recollect?”