Up to that time, it had never occurred to him to bandage
his legs with khaki, and then convert the bandages into a species of
portable sideboard.
"Paddy," Weldon remonstrated; "don't stop to play with his knife. No
matter if it is cracked. So is he, for the matter of that. Go and
tell your menial troop to remember to put a little beef in the soup,
this noon. I am tired of sipping warm water and onion juice."
"What time is it, then?"
"My watch says eleven; but my stomach declares it is half-past two.
Trot along, there's a good Paddy. And don't forget to tie a pink
string to my piece of meat, when you give it to the orderly. Else I
may not know it's the best one." With a reluctant yawn and a glance
upward towards the sun, Paddy scrambled to his feet and brushed
himself off with the outspread palms of his stubby hands. Then he
turned to the men behind him.
"Stick your fork back in your putties, Mr. Carew, and I'll send you
a knife to go with it. As long as Paddy manages the cooking tent,
the cracked knives shall go to the dunderheads. The best isn't any
too good for them as rides like you and Mr. Weldon, and drinks no
rum at all."
Weldon eyed him mockingly.
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