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"I got it without any thinking out at all," I said. "Don't talk so, private. Listen. Now, look here, it's all Duncombe's fault." "That we're alive?" I said. "Pooh! Nonsense! It's that anti-febrile tonic, as he calls it. It's my firm belief that he hadn't the right sort of medicine with him, and he has fudged up something to make shift with." "What nonsense!" I said.
His arm, the seat of throbbing pain, had swollen to twice the natural size, while his side prevented him taking a full breath, voluntarily. He had paid no attention to his own hurts, and it was either the vigor of a constitution that years of dissipation had not impaired, or some anti-febrile property of bear-meat, or the absence of the exciting whisky that won the battle.
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