"How is that?" ask the three of us (for we are three in spite of his denial).
"Well, the surgeon who has arranged my nose, a very clever chap by the way, promised me to use his influence with the first general who would be wounded. That can't last very long, can it?"
"I don't want to undeceive you," points out Cotton, "but you had better tell me why we are two and not three. If it's true I will believe in the coming of your commission."
"Right!" says Charlie. "Patrick Cooper is one P.C., and Pringle Cotton gives another P.C., therefore the three of you are two P.C.'s. It's as clear as a chemical formula."
"There is something in that," answers Guncotton seriously.
"Otherwise your brain is not affected?" inquires Pringle, full of anxiety.
"I am not sure," answers the Sergeant, and assumes as mysterious an air as his bandage permits. "I guess," (this in his most American nasal pronounciation), "that there is something the matter with my brain. Tell me, when the other day I tried to be lighter than air and flew up, only to show that I was heavier than air and fell on my nose, how long was I ... Hun-conscious?"
"Three minutes," says Cotton.