"Fellows in books," said the weak voice, drowsily, "never get hit in the tummy.... Always—head in a bandage—or—arm in sling.... Those Johnnies that write books—ought to come out with us."
There was silence for a time: the far-off flashes grew more rare. The wounded man shifted himself a little and spoke again.
"You're a brick, Warrington!" he said.
"Slightly different from Piccadilly and the Strand this, eh, Vic?"
"I wish the mater could see us now," said Vicary; "she's going to bye-bye just about now. She'd stick you pretty high up in her prayers if she knew."
"The next time you start talking nonsense," said Warrington, "I shall consider you delirious and past hope; and I shall turn tail and make tracks for camp."
A long silence.
"It's getting beastly cold," said Vicary, with a shiver; "I shall never pull through to-night."
"A HOWLING HILLMAN STUMBLED OVER VICARY'S LEGS."