"Let's change the conversation, then," I said. "I say, oughtn't old Briggs to have been here by now?" "I don't know; but you oughtn't to give a poor weak fellow such a slanging as that." "I say," I said, "you wished we were up the veldt shooting lions." "So I do," replied Denham. "Don't you?" "No. I wish you and I were at my home, with old Aunt Jenny to nurse and feed us up with beef-tea and jelly, and eggs beaten up in new milk, and plenty of tea and cream and--" "Val! Val, old chap! don't--don't," cried Denham; "it's maddening. Why, we should have feather-beds and beautiful clean sheets." "That we should," I said, with a sigh; "and--Ah! here's old Briggs." "Morning, gents," said the Sergeant, pulling back the tilt curtain after entering. "Hope you're both better." "Yes, ever so much, Sergeant," cried Denham. "Here, come and sit down. Light your pipe and smoke." "What about the doctor, sir?" said Briggs dubiously. "Won't be here for an hour. I'll give you leave. Fill and light up." The Sergeant obeyed orders willingly. "Now then," said Denham, "talk away. I want to know exactly how matters stand since yesterday." "All right, sir," said the Sergeant, carefully crushing out the match he had struck, as he smoked away. "Well, go on," said Denham impatiently. "You said yesterday that things were as bad as they could possibly be." "I did, sir." "Well, how are they now?" "Worse. Ever so much worse." "What do you mean, you jolly old muddler?" cried Denham, rousing up and looking brighter than he had been since he came under the doctor's hands. "What I say, sir," replied the Sergeant, staring. "Things are ever so much worse." "Val," cried Denham, turning to me, "poor old Briggs has had so much to do with that scoundrel Moriarty that he has caught his complaint." "I beg pardon, sir," growled the Sergeant stiffly; "I've always been faithful to Her Majesty the Queen." "Of course you have, Sergeant." "Beg pardon, sir. You said I'd caught his complaint, meaning I was turning renegade." "Nothing of the kind; but you have caught his national complaint, for there you go again--blundering. Can't you see?" "No, sir," said the Sergeant, drawing himself up stiffer than ever. "Then you ought to. Blundering--making bulls. If the state of affairs was as bad as it could be yesterday, how can it be worse to-day?" The Sergeant scratched his head, and his countenance relaxed. "Oh!" he said thoughtfully, "of course. I didn't see that at first, gentlemen." "Never mind, so long as you see it now. But go ahead, Briggs. You can't think what it is to be lying here in hospital, with fighting going on all round, and only able to get scraps of news now and then." The Sergeant chuckled. "Here, I don't see anything to laugh at in that," cried Denham, frowning. "Do you find it funny?"