“Oh—you do, do you?” Agnew growled.
“Very much more, sir. I want you to let it pass.”
The Colonel threw down his pen, and sank back in his chair, speechless.
Traherne pressed on. “If he has to leave the Army, his case will be hopeless.”
Agnew found his voice. “The Service will be hopeless, if we officer it with drunkards.”
“It is not quite hopeless, I think—and I’ll be on the job for all I’m worth, if you’ll let me have it my way, sir. Let him stay on with you. Give him leave—not too long, and I’ll take him off after game or butterflies, or any old thing. I’ll make him come. Or, if he won’t for me, he will for you!” Agnew looked down, his eyelids blinked. “And bring him back with the stuff out of his blood. And when I have, I’ll stick to him like a leech, and a brother and a doctor. I want to cure him. I believe that I may be able to do it—with your help, sir.”
“I’m no doctor!”
“I’m not so sure, sir,” Traherne replied with a quiet smile. “I’ve seen you in cholera camp, remember. And I’ve a theory that every great soldier is a pretty fine sort of physician as well.”
“Cut the blarney,” Agnew snapped—but he was pleased. “Why are you so set on it, man? It wouldn’t be a pleasant job. Stick to malaria, there’s more in it.”
“I’ll stick to both,” Traherne replied.