"Where're the rest?" Drew asked.
Driscoll's good hand motioned to the left. "Four ... five ... some there. Standish—he got it with a shell—no head ... not any more—" He gave a sound like a giggle, and then his hand went hastily to his mouth as he retched dryly.
Drew caught the other's shoulder, shaking him.
"The others!" he demanded more loudly, trying to pierce the curtain of shock to Driscoll's thinking mind.
"Four ... five ... some—" Driscoll repeated. "Standish, he's dead. Did I tell you about Standish? A shell came along and—"
"Yes, you told me about Standish. Now show me where the others are!" Still keeping his shoulder grip, Drew edged Driscoll about until the trooper was pointed in the general direction to which he had gestured. Now Drew gave the man a push and followed.
"Rennie!" That was Captain Campbell. He was kneeling by a man on the ground, a canteen in his hand.
Drew lurched forward. He was so sure that that inert casualty was Boyd, and that Boyd was dead.
"Boyd—" he murmured stupidly, refusing to believe his eyes. The man lying there had a brush of grayish beard on his chin, a mat of hair which moved up and down as he breathed in heavy, panting gasps.
"Boyd?" This time the scout made a question of it.