“Have you any objection, sir, to my taking a census?” said Warner to Colonel Winchester.

“No, Warner, but what kind of a census do you mean?”

“I want to count our wounds, separately and individually and then make up the grand total.”

“All right, George, go ahead,” said Colonel Winchester, laughing.

“Dick,” said Warner, “what hurts have you sustained in the past week?”

“A bullet scratch on the shoulder, another on the side, a slight cut from a saber on my left arm, about healed now, a spent bullet that hit me on the head, raising a lump and ache for the time being, and a kick from one of our own horses that made me walk lame for a day.”

“The kick from a horse, as it was one of our horses, doesn’t go.”

“I didn’t put it forward seriously.  I withdraw my claim on its account.”

“That allows you four wounds.  Now, Pennington, how about you?”

“First I had a terrible wound in the foot,” replied the Nebraskan.  “A bullet went right through my left shoe and cut the skin off the top of my little toe.”

“Leave out the ‘terrible.’  That’s no dreadful wound.”

“No, but it burned like the sting of a wasp and bled in a most disgraceful manner all over my sock.  Then my belt buckle was shot away.”

“That doesn’t count either.  A wound’s a wound only when you’re hit yourself, not when some piece of your clothing is struck.”

“All right.  The belt buckle’s barred, although it gave me a shock when the bullet met it.  A small bullet went through the flesh of my left arm just above the elbow.  It healed so fast that I’ve hardly noticed it, due, of course, to the very healthy and temperate life I’ve led.  I suppose, George, it would have laid up a fellow of your habits for a week.”

“Never mind about my habits, but go on with the list of your wounds.  A great beauty of mathematics is that it compels you to keep to your subject.  When you’re solving one of those delightful problems in mathematics you can’t digress and drag in irrelevant things.  Algebra is the very thing for a confused mind like yours, Frank, one that doesn’t coordinate.  But get on with your list.”

“When we were in pursuit my horse stumbled in a gully and fell so hard that I was thrown over his shoulder, giving my own shoulder a painful bruise that’s just getting well.”

“We’ll allow that, since it happened in battle.  What else now?  Speak up!”

“That’s all.  Three good wounds, according to your own somewhat severe definition of a wound.  I’m one behind Dick, but I believe that when I was thrown over my horse’s head I was hurt worse than he was at any time.”

“Frank Pennington, you’re a good comrade, but you’re a liar, an unmitigated liar.”

“George, if I weren’t so tired and so unwilling to be angry with anybody I’d get up and belt you on the left ear for that.”