His left arm began to do well, but the condition of his right arm was less satisfactory.
“Greene, my son,” said the O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital to him one day, “you’re for the Hospital Ship Madras, her next trip. Lucky young dog. Wish I was. . . . Give my love to Colonel Giffard and Major Symons when you get on board. . . . You’ll get a trip down to Zanzibar, I believe, on your way to Bombay. . . . You’ll be having tea on the lawn at the Yacht Club next month—think of it!”
Bertram thought of something else and radiated joy.
“Aha! That bucks you, does it? Wounded hero with his arm in a sling at the Friday-evening-band-night-tea-on-the-lawn binges, what?”
Bertram smiled.
“Could I stay on in Mombasa a bit, sir?” he asked.
The O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital stared.
“Eh?” said he, doubting that he could have heard aright. Bertram repeated the question, and the O.C., M.S.H., felt his pulse. Was this delirium?
“No,” he said shortly in the voice of one who is grieved and disappointed. “You’ll go straight on board the Madras—and damned lucky too. . . . You don’t deserve to. . . . I’d give . . .”
“What is the procedure when I get to Bombay?” asked Bertram, as the doctor fell into a brown study.