“We maun cut away his sleeve,” commanded Sandy, who seemed to know precisely what to do, “or he may bleed to death.”
To slit up the sleeves of the coat and woolen shirt was the work of only half a moment, and the pain caused by the chill air striking the lacerated flesh, brought back consciousness in short order.
Glancing around the circle of strange faces, catching sight of the handcuffed Scotty and mournful Bob, and feeling the numb pain in his naked arm, which Sandy was washing, the poor fellow turned aside his face, closed his eyes, and muttered in complete disgust:
“Why in thunder didn’t ye let me die?”
“There’s naething but mends for misdeeds,” was Sandy’s sententious rejoinder, as he cleansed the wound of blood, picked the shreds of cloth out of it, and lifted the arm to examine its extent.
“The ball ha’ passed quite through the muscles,” he announced, “and entered the man’s side. I’m not so sure, my fair body, that it was worth while to bring you to.”
“Eh! What’s that? you don’t mean to say—?”
“Keep cool!” commanded Sandy sternly “D’ye want to bleed to death, ye fool, before we can bind ye up? Keep quiet!”
Dipping a handkerchief in cold water he bound it tightly round the perforated arm, a proceeding which set Stevens groaning pitifully.
“Now let’s see what else,” he said; and began to search the chest of his patient for marks of harm.