They sat him down on a ration box,—but he flopped like a sackful of old clothes, and the sympathetic one had to act as a buttress.
“You’re done in, chum. Give us some of that stew in my mess-tin, Harry.”
But the sight and the smell of the stew made Brent feel sick. The cook held his head like a mother, and Brent’s head felt dry and hot.
“You want the doc, chum; that’s what’s the matter with you. Ten days in hospital in a real bed, between real sheets,—with a lovely little nurse feeding you with a spoon.”
Brent protested, gripping the cook’s wrist.
“I don’t want the doc, old chap. I’m done up, that’s all. I’d like a cup of tea, and a ration biscuit.”
“Rot,” said the cook, “you’re ill.”
One of the company stretcher-bearers happened to pass that way.
“Hi—Chucker, where’s the M.O.?”
“Headquarters mess.”