“Yes, I knew Angus Bruce.”
“Ottawa suggests a posthumous Military Cross for him.”
The younger officer said nothing to that, although the expression of his face suggested that he wanted to say a great deal. Instead of speaking he fell to studying his map again. The line of his mouth was tense. Even the set of his broad, lean shoulders looked tense. A keen observer would have noticed a general air of tenseness about him—tenseness of self-control practiced under difficulties.
“But I think my letter to Ottawa will fix that,” added the colonel, still speaking around his cigar.
The other looked across the table again.
“Fix it?” he queried.
His voice was low but slightly tremulous.
“Kill it,” replied the colonel.
“I don’t understand you, sir,” said the junior, still speaking quietly. “Bruce earned it several times, to my personal knowledge.”
“I don’t agree with you. I knew the fellow for years. We used to live in the same town. There’s a yellow streak in the breed. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”