“Your turn, nurse,” he said. “Then take the can and go all round, and finish off by taking a glass up to the Frenchman.”
“Ah, I was looking round, sir, for him,” said Archie.
“Yes, I am getting too full here, my lad. I have had him carried up to that room where Pegg’s on duty.”
“Oh, I’m going there, sir, and I shall see him.”
“One moment, Duchess; half a glass, please. I feel like a volcanic cinder.—As you say, my lad—de-licious,” he continued, as he handed back the glass. “I am proud of that water, and so you ought to be.”
“I am, Doctor.”
“That’s all due to me, sir. When we first came—you know the Major’s way—‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘There will be three hundred idle men here with nothing to do, and they can fetch as much water as we want for the day’s supply from the river.’ And I said, ‘No. In a hot country like this I want my men to have good, pure, sparkling well water, and not to be forced to drink croc and campong drainage soup. I want a thoroughly good well dug by an engineering company.’ I got it, too, just when he was red-hot over his idea for a magazine. And now, sir, there’s my well, always full of that delicious spring water that will do the men more good than any medicine I can exhibit; and where’s his magazine? You tell me that.”
“If he were here, Doctor, he’d tell you that he’d rather have the magazine intact than the well.”
“Never mind. I’ve got the water.”
“Yes, Doctor. But how’s Mrs Morley?”