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"By gum!" quoth Stalky, uncovering as he read. "It's old Duncan Fat-Sow Duncan killed on duty at something or other Kotal. 'Rallyin' his men with conspicuous gallantry. He would, of course. 'The body was recovered. That's all right. They cut 'em up sometimes, don't they, Foxy?" "Horrid," said the sergeant briefly. "Poor old Fat-Sow! I was a fag when he left. How many does that make to us, Foxy?"
I don't know whether he'll be much use, though. He was rather knocked about, recovering poor old Duncan's body." "Crandall major the Gunner?" Perowne asked. "No, the minor 'Toffee' Crandall in a native infantry regiment. He was almost before your time, Perowne." "The papers didn't say anything about him. We read about Fat-Sow, of course. What's Crandall done, sir?"
I gave him a drink and sat down beside him, and funny thing, too he said, 'Hullo, Toffee! and I said, 'Hullo, Fat-Sow! hope you aren't hurt, or something of the kind. But he died in a minute or two never lifted his head off my knees... I say, you chaps out there will get your death of cold. Better go to bed." "All right. In a minute. But your cuts your cuts. How did you get wounded?"
"I've brought over an Indian paper that his mother sent me. It was rather a hefty, I think you say piece of work. Shall I read it?" The Head knew how to read. When he had finished the quarter-column of close type everybody thanked him politely. "Good for the old Coll.!" said Perowne. "Pity he wasn't in time to save Fat-Sow, though. That's nine to us, isn't it, in the last three years?"
"Sta Corkran said," the prefect began, his tone showing his sense of Stalky's insolence, "that perhaps you'd tell us about that business with Duncan's body." "Yes yes yes," ran the keen whispers. "Tell us" "There's nothing to tell. What on earth are you chaps hoppin' about in the cold for?" "Never mind us," said the voices. "Tell about Fat-Sow."
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