"Go back, Dashwood," said the boy, speaking with difficulty, "it's no use, I'm done."
"Nonsense, old chap; we're going to get you in between us," said Dennis. "Hawke and I can carry you."
"No, no—do go back, there's a dear fellow," gurgled the boy, a rush of blood from his lungs almost choking him. "But I say, Dashwood, there is one thing you might do for me. You'll find a writing pad in my kit-bag, the Mater would like to have it."
"She shall, Wetherby. But let's have a look at you, and see if we can stop the hæmorrhage before we pick you up. Where did that fiend get you?"
"Through the heart," replied the dying boy. "Please let me lie here, and tell the Mater I don't regret it, except for her sake; say that I wouldn't have missed this for anything. I've only known what it was to live since I came out here!" And then, with his hand clasped in his friend's hand, Cuthbert Wetherby knew what it was to die, and passed into the great beyond with a fearless smile on his young lips.
Dennis had seen so many men "go out" in the few brief weeks of his fighting that he had deemed himself case-hardened against anything, but now he had to look away, a little ashamed that Hawke should see the spasm that came into his face.
"You are not the only one that's lost a pal to-night, Hawke," he said in a choking voice; "now give me a hand with this Prussian hog."
As Hawke jumped up with alacrity he gave a yell of positive anguish. "Why didn't you let me tickle 'im in the ribs, sir? He's gone!" he howled.