“They’ve got me,” gasped Billy. “My Christ, it do ’urt.”
“Lemme look,” said Pug quickly. “Let’s ’ave a field-dressin’, one o’ yer.”
Simson’s shoulder was already crimsoning, and the blood ran and dripped fast from it. Pug slipped out a knife, and with a couple of slashes split the torn jacket and shirt down and across.
“I don’t think it’s a bad ’un,” he said. “Don’t seem to go deep, and it’s well up on the shoulder anyway.”
“It’s bad enough,” said Billy, “by the way it ’urts.”
Kentucky also examined the wound closely.
“I’m sure Pug’s right,” he said. “It isn’t anyways dangerous, Billy.”
Billy looked up suddenly. “It’s a Blighty one, isn’t it?” he said anxiously.
“Oh, yes,” said Kentucky; “a Blighty one, sure.”