“Your arm bad?” said the colonel, anxiously. Then to the doctor—“Will you see to him?”
“Yes, of course,” said that gentleman, who was on the alert directly. “Come with me to your room, Lacey, my boy, and let’s have a look at you.”
“Not if I know it!” said the young officer, with an energy that startled his hearers. “I’ll prescribe for myself—Rest! Here, who’s got a good cigar?”
Half a dozen were outstretched directly.
“I said a cigar!” growled Lacey. “I haven’t got six mouths! Hi, Brigley, a light!”
But Jerry had left the room, and matches were offered by the nearest neighbour.
“That fellow’s always out of the way when I want him!” snarled Lacey, savagely, as he struck a match, which went off with a loud crack, and lit his cigar, at which he began to puff furiously.
“Your injuries are paining you, my dear Lacey.”
“So would yours, if you had them!” cried the young man with a snap; and the colonel smiled. “I don’t see where the fun comes in, sir!” growled Lacey, angrily.
“I beg your pardon, my dear fellow,” cried his chief. “I really sympathise with you, though.”