“Of course not; you’re best where you are. You couldn’t wear your helmet.”
“My word, no! Head’s awfully tender. It makes me frightfully wild sometimes when I think of the cowardly way in which that cur Lennox—”
“Hold hard!” cried Dickenson, frowning. “Look here, Roby; you got that crotchet into your head in the delirium that followed your wound. You’re getting better now and talk like a sane man, so just drop that nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
“Yes; horrible nonsense. Have you thought of the mischief you are doing by making such a charge?”
“Thought till my head has seemed on fire. He’ll have to leave the regiment, and a good job too.”
“Of course, over a craze.”
“Craze, sir? It’s a simple fact—the honest truth. Ask Corporal May there.—It’s true, isn’t it, May?”
“Oh yes, sir; it’s true enough,” said the corporal, “though I’m sorry enough to have to say it of my officer.”
“It doesn’t seem like it, sir,” said Dickenson in a voice full of exasperation.