"Hold hard! Sawbones will be up soon. Meanwhile, let's try and staunch the blood. We'll tear up your shirt for a bandage."
And with rough but real kindness he tore open McKay's old greggo so as to get at his underlinen. This action betrayed the red cloth waistcoat he still wore.
"Why, that's an English staff waistcoat. Quick! How did you come by it, you murdering rogue?"
"I am a staff officer."
"You! What do you call yourself?"
"Mr. McKay, of the Royal Picts: deputy-assistant-quartermaster-general at headquarters."
"Save us alive! This bangs Bannagher. Wait, honey—wait till I call an officer."
Presently, when the wounds had been rudely but effectively bound up, a captain of the 38th came up, and to him McKay made himself known.
"This is no time or place to ask how you came here. Taken prisoner, I suppose?"
"Who are you? What force?"