For an hour the unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment rose to
more than normal tide-level Bobby Wick stuck out his tongue and breathed
heavily. He was not used to letter-writing.
"Beg y'pardon, sir," said a voice at the tent door; "but Dormer's 'orrid bad,
sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir.
"Damn Private Dormer and you too!" said Bobby Wick running the blotter over
the half-finished letter. "Tell him I'll come in the morning."
"'E's awful bad, sir," said the voice, hesitatingly. There was an undecided
squelching of heavy boots.
"Well?" said Bobby, impatiently.
"Excusin' 'imself before an' for takin' the liberty, 'e says it would be a
comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if"--
"Tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of the rain till I'm ready. What
blasted nuisances you are! That's brandy. Drink some; you want it. Hang on to
my stirrup and tell me if I go mo fast."
Strengthened by a four-finger "nip" which he swallowed without a wink, the
Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping, mud-stained, and very disgusted
pony as it shambled to the hospital tent.
Private Dormer was certainly " 'orrid bad." He had all but reached the stage
of collapse and was not pleasant to look upon.
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