“I am, sir,” said the man sturdily. “Ask the doctor, sir. I’m doing my best, for it’s sore work sometimes with the poor chaps who are regularly bad and feel that they are going home—I mean the long home, sir. I’ve got six or seven little things—bits of hair, and a silver ring, and a lucky shilling, and such-like, along with messages to take back with me for the poor fellows’ mothers and sisters and gals; and please goodness I ever get back to the old country from this blessed bean-feast we’re having, I’m going to take those messages and things to them they’re for, even if I have to walk.”
“Ha!” said the young officer, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder and gripping him firmly, for there was a huskiness in his words now, and he sniffed and passed his hand across his nose.
“Can’t help it, sir. I’m hard enough over the jobs, but it touches a man when it comes to sewing ’em up in their blankets ready for you know what. Makes you think of them at home.”
“Yes,” said Dickenson, in quite an altered tone. “There, you know me. When we get back and you’re going to deliver your messages, if you let me know, orderly, I’ll see that you don’t have to walk.” Dickenson turned sharply to walk away, but came back. “Try and keep the captain from making those outrageous charges, my lad.”
“I do, sir; but he will keep on.”
“Well, go on cooling his bandages, and he’ll go off to sleep.”
“I hope so, sir,” replied the man. “But what about Corporal May?”
“Serve him the same, of course,” said Dickenson, and he hurried away, with Roby’s words ringing in his ears.
“Chap wants to be a sort of angel for this work,” said the orderly as he fumbled about his slight garments. “Hankychy, hankychy, where are yer? Washed you out clean in the little river this morning and dried you on a hot stone.”
“What are you looking for, mate?” said the third patient in the hut feebly—a man who, with a shattered arm-bone, was lying very still.