“Hankychy,” said the orderly gruffly. “Lost it.”
“Here it is. You lent it to me to wipe my face and keep off the flies.”
“Did I? So I did. All right, mate; keep it. Mind you don’t hurt the flies. Like a drink o’ water?”
“Ah-h!” sighed the injured man. That was all, but it meant so much.
There was a pleasant, trickling, tinkling sound in the heated hut as the orderly took a tin and dipped it in an iron bucket. The next minute he was down on one knee with an arm under the sufferer’s shoulders, raising him as gently as if the task was being done by a woman. Then the tin was held to the poor fellow’s lips, and the orderly smiled as he saw the avidity with which it was emptied.
“Good as a drop of beer—eh?” he said.
“Beer?” replied the patient, returning the smile. “Ha! Not bad in its way; but I never tasted a pint so good as that.”
“Oh! Ah!” said the orderly grimly. “Wait till you get all right again, and you’ll alter your tune.”
“Get right again?” whispered the man, so that the corporal should not hear. “Think I shall?”
“What! with nothing else the matter but a broken bone? Why, of course.”