As an officer, regarding him with wonder, kindliness, an abashed self-consciousness at the memory of the message he had read, gave orders to carry him to the rear, Twing spoke, his voice tremulous and weak, but a certain doggedness in his tones.
"Begging your pardon, sir. But might I arsk a favor, sir?"
"Yes, corporal. What is it? Certainly. Anything that's possible."
"Well, sir; you see, sir, it's like this here. I didn't know you was comink, so I made a contrack."
"Yes?" the officer asked, as the other paused.
"Well, if it's possible, sir, I'd like the sergeant to 'elp me up to that perishing ledge. My dead mate's up there—Perkins. Privit Carson'll pull through, sir."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I been a bit of a rotter—but I bloody well 'ave to keep a contrack, bein' a N.C.O., 'aven't I?
"Could you, sir?" and his drawn, haggard cheeks were suffused, as a shamefaced expression flitted across his face, to leave his jaw set doggedly. "I'd like to stay there arf a mo by myself, sir, afore they tykes me to the bleedin' 'orspital.
