It's the same way with your
orders here. Because you don't funk, there is no reason you should
flirt with an early death."
"But I don't."
"What about now?"
"What do you mean?"
"That you ought to be in hospital."
Weldon threw back his head and laughed, but mirthlessly.
"Why, then?"
Without speaking, Carew took out his pipe, filled it and began
fumbling in his pocket.
"Have you a match?" he asked.
Weldon nodded, produced the match, lighted it and held it to the
extended pipe. Carew's eyes, drooped to the bowl, watched the bit of
flame.
"Do you call that a steady hand?" he asked then. "Man, you're ill, I
tell you. Your face is hot and your hands are cold, and your nerves
are worn to shoestrings, frayed shoestrings at that. If you keep on,
you'll be down flatter than you like. You ought to have stopped four
weeks ago."
Weldon crossed his arms at the nape of his neck and lay back at his
ease on the ground.
"Then what would have become of my V. C.?" he queried, with languid
indifference.
"But I thought you claimed not to care for your V. C."
"I don't. My friends may, however." "As a legacy? I think your
friends may possibly choose you to the V.
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