"I feels bad," he said, "can't, can't the bleedin' be stopped? I don't want to go under ... think they can get me away before Jerry comes? Things some'ow ain't over clear: everything foggy." Casey came over to him, white-faced and half-crying himself.
"You're orl right, ole pal," he said, "not bleedin' much now."
"No. But it's cloudy. D'you find it cloudy?"
"Yes. A 'ell of a mist creepin' up. Want any water?"
"No, but," with a faint grin, "got any rum?"
"'Ere you," an N.C.O. ran up and touched Casey, "Captain wants a runner. Get a move on."
"But poor ole Stumpy yere——"
"D'you 'ear wot I said. Go on, 'op it, or I'll—well, put lead in yer."
"Orl right. So long, ole pal."
"So long." Stumpy tried hard to see him through the mistiness before his eyes, "but you'll get me away before Jerry comes...." Casualty list two weeks later: "Pte.——. Missing. April 12th". He is still unheard of, forgotten. His grave is undisturbed somewhere in peaceful loneliness.