“Well, it does seem hard,” said Dick.
“No, sir; soft—horridly soft,” said the sergeant, and he rose with a sigh. “I’ve felt sometimes that if I get my discharge I shall make an end of myself.”
“Nonsense.”
“Oh, I shall. I’ve often thought of drowning myself, after being laughed at, but I couldn’t do that.”
“I should think not.”
“Fat would be against me there, Smithson; I should only float.”
The idea of the plump sergeant bobbing about, half out of the water, like a cork-float, excited Dick’s laughing muscles; but he saw how genuine was the distress of the poor fellow standing before him, and he forbore, knowing as he did that a good warm heart beat beneath that coating of fat and that Brumpton was a clever officer and devoted to his work.
“I wish I could help you, sergeant,” said Dick, at last.
“So do I, my lad; but you can’t.”
“Have you tried the doctor?”