Captain McBean went up to the room where Harry lay as white as his pillows. A woman was feeding him out of a cup. "You made it damned salt, your broth," says Harry, in a feeble disgust.
"'Tis what you lack, look you." Captain McBean sat himself on the bed and took the cup and waved the woman off. "'Tis the natural, hale salinity and the sanguineous part which you lose by a wound, and for lack of it you are thus faint. Therefore we do ever administer great possets of salt to the wounded, and—"
"And pickle me before I be dead," says Harry. "Be hanged to your jargon."
"You'll take another sup, my lad, if I hold your long nose to it. And you may suck your orange after."
Harry made a wry face, swallowed a mouthful and lay back out of breath.
After a while, "You were here all night, weren't you?" he said.
"I am body physician to the family of Boyce, mon brave."
"My father?"
"Has a hole in his shoulder, praise God, and a damned paternal temper. He will do well enough."
"How do you come into it?" McBean grinned. "Who were they?"
"I am here to talk to you, mon cher. You will not talk to me, for it is disintegrating to your tissues. Allons, compose yourself and attend. Now I come into it, if you please, out of gratitude. Mr. Boyce—I have it in command from His Majesty to present you with his thanks for very gallant and faithful service."