Dorothy, who was told off to No. 3 Corps, flew at the sound of the guns, and pounced upon the first prostrate form she came across.
"Are you killed or wounded?" she enquired breathlessly.
"Wounded, m'm," replied the boy, with a grin. "But you can't have me, because another lady's got me already. She looks at me and she says: 'Not movable', and she's run to get a spade to dig a 'ole with."
"Oh! To put your hip in, I suppose?"
"Yes, m'm. They don't bury us unless we're killed."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Dorothy, as she hurried away to find a patient who was still unappropriated.
"Anybody attending to you?" she asked a solemn, curly-headed little fellow, who lay under the shade of the hedge with arms stretched in a dramatic attitude on either side of him.
"No, miss—shot through the lungs, and leg shattered," he replied complacently.
"Then it's a case of stop bleeding, bandage, and lift on stretcher. I'll bind you up first, and then call for someone to help to carry you. Can you raise yourself at all on your arm, or are you helpless? Am I hurting you?"
"No, miss—but you do tickle me awful!"