ted. You did get knocked about. I say, though, do I
look as bad as you do?"

"I believe you look ten times worse," I said, trying to be cheerful and
to do something in the way of retort.

"No, no; but seriously, do I look very bad?"

"Awfully!" I said.

"Oh, I say! Come, now, how do I look?"

"Well, there's all the skin off your nose, where you scratched against
the rock."

"Ye-es," he said, patting his nose tenderly; "but it's scaling over
nicely. I say, what a good job I didn't break the bridge!"

"It was indeed," I said.

"Well, what else?"

"Your eyes look as if you'd been having a big fight with the bully of
the school."

"Are they still so very much swollen up?"

"More than ever," I said, in comforting tones.

"But they're not black?"

"No; only purple and yellow and green."

"Val," he cried passionately, "if you go on like that I'll sit up and
punch your head."

"You can't," I replied.

"No, you coward! Oh, if I only could! It's taking a mean advantage of
a fellow. But never mind; I'm going to hear it all. What else?"

"I won't tell you any more," I replied.

"You shall. Tell me at once."

"You don't want to know about that place on the top of your head, just
above your forehead, where you are so fond of parting your hair?"

"Yes, I do. I say, does it look so very bad?"

"Shocking. He has crossed the strips of sticking-plaster over and over,
and across and across, till it looks just like a white star."

"Oh dear," he groaned, "how horrid! I say, though, has he cut the hair
in front very short?"

"Well, not so short as he could have done it with a razor."

"Val!" he shouted. "It's too bad."

"Yes," I said; "it looks dreadful."

"No, I mean of you; and if you go on like that again we shall quarrel."

"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 Br