About four o'clock in the afternoon he heard the faint ring of spurred boots in the hall.
"This is an Officer's Ward, sir," a voice was saying.
The Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Chief, followed by another Officer only less distinguished than himself, came slowly in.
"Poor boys!" he said. "How are you getting on?"
"All right, thank you, sir," he answered, smiling with pride.
"Here's the latest news from England," added the great man, as he dropped a paper on the bed. The Subaltern's left hand almost shot out of bed to grasp it. He looked up just in time to see them disappearing through the doorway.
He tried to read the paper, but the effort brought the very worst pains back again to his head, so he concealed it under the coverlet of the bed. He was determined to keep that paper. It was already growing dark, when the young Doctor of the Ward came to his bedside, smiling.
"We are going to operate on you at eight o'clock," he said. "It will be all right. We'll soon put you straight."
"Straight?" he echoed. "Yes, I dare say you will!"