The wounded man opened his eyes, and looked up, weakly.
"Aye," he said. "I'm Tamson, the baker." His voice was weak, and he looked tired. But he looked puzzled, too.
"Weel, Tamson, man, what's the matter wi' ye?" asked the other. "I didna hear that ye were sick or hurt. How comes it ye are here? Can it be that ye ha' been to the war, man, and we not hearing of it, at all?"
"Aye, I think so," said Tamson, still weakly, but as if he were rather glad of a chance to talk, at that.
"Ye think so?" asked his friend, in greater astonishment than ever. "Man, if ye've been to the war do ye not know it for sure and certain?"
"Well, I will tell ye how it is," said Tamson, very slowly and wearily. "I was in the reserve, do ye ken. And I was standin' in front of my hoose one day in August, thinkin' of nothin' at all. I marked a man who was coming doon the street, wi' a blue paper in his hand, and studyin' the numbers on the doorplates. But I paid no great heed to him until he stopped and spoke to me.
"He had stopped outside my hoose and looked at the number, and then at his blue paper. And then he turned to me.
"'Are ye Tamson, the baker?' he asked me—just as ye asked me that same question the noo.
"And I said to him, just as I said it to ye, 'Aye, I'm Tamson, the baker.'
"'Then it's Hamilton Barracks for ye, Tamson,' he said, and handed me the blue paper.