“Yes—yes,” said Brumpton, dolefully.
“What did he advise?”
“Nothing! Laughed at me.”
Dick sat, tapping the table with his penholder.
“I know how it will be,” continued the sergeant. “I shall be pitched out of the regiment, and then I shall begin to get thin from misery and despair.”
“Going?” said Dick.
“Yes; I’ll just walk round to the canteen and get in the scales again. I try ’em every day, hoping to find ’em moving the wrong way, but I never can. I was seventeen stone thirteen yesterday; next week I shall be eighteen stone, and they can’t keep a man like that in the army.”
“Stop! Look here!” cried Dick, so earnestly that the sergeant plumped down again into his seat, gazing wildly into the young man’s face, ready to grasp at any straw to save himself from being drowned in his misery.
“Yes, yes,” he panted; and he began to wipe his big, smooth face. “Got an idea?”
“I think I could cure you, Mr Brumpton.”