"That's all. Three good wounds, according to your own somewhat severe definition of a wound. I'm one behind Dick, but I believe that when I was thrown over my horse's head I was hurt worse than he was at any time."
"Frank Pennington, you're a good comrade, but you're a liar, an unmitigated liar."
"George, if I weren't so tired and so unwilling to be angry with anybody I'd get up and belt you on the left ear for that."
"But you're a liar, just the same. You're holding something back."
"What are you driving at, you chattering Green Mountaineer?"
"Why don't you tell something about the time the trooper fell from his horse wounded, and you, dismounting under the enemy's fire, helped him on your own horse, although you got two wounds in your body while doing it, and brought him off in safety? Didn't I say that you were a liar, a convicted liar from modesty?"
Pennington blushed.
"I didn't want to say anything about that," he muttered. "I had to do it."
"Lots of men wouldn't have had to do it. You go down for five good wounds, Frank Pennington."
"Now, then, what about yourself, George?" asked Dick.