He had no sooner settled down than a voice was heard calling for "Second-Lieutenant Hackett."
"Here," replied the Guardee, without any enthusiasm.
A dapper Staff Officer, so tall that he had to stoop to enter the compartment, drew a paper from his pocket.
"You?" he asked. "Well, Hackett, this is a great evening in your life, and I congratulate you." He shook the Guardee's left hand. "You have been given the D.S.O.," he added hurriedly, for the train had already begun to move. With that he disappeared.
It was not until the following morning that the Sister came in to dress his wound.
"What strong teeth you've got, boy!" she said.
Nobody knew better than he did that his teeth were large and tended to protrude, but it is always annoying to have one's defects admired.
The Orderly was, in his way, an artist. He was light-handed, quick, deferential, and soothing—a prince among Orderlies. He produced wonderful tit-bits—amongst other things tinned chicken, sardines, chocolate, and, for the Guardee, stout! Three minutes after the Sister had strictly forbidden him to read, the Orderly smuggled into his hand the Paris Daily Mail of the day before. Von Moltke had been dismissed. "The first of the great failures," he said to himself. But the Sister was right; it was too painful to read.
"What are we stopping here for?" the Guardee asked once.
"To unload the dead, sir," replied the Orderly, with serious suavity.