“My eye, don’t it hurt!” groaned poor Sam, suddenly becoming pale. “Go easy with it, mate. Let the corporal have a turn.”
Phil crept under the wagon, and finding the spear protruding almost a foot on the other side of the shoulder, pulled out his clasp-knife, and opening a small saw, which was a special feature of it, proceeded to cut the point off. That done, he grasped the shaft and gently pulled it from the wound.
“Come and help here, Tony,” he cried. “But—wait a minute. Have a good look round first of all, and tell me if you can see any more of those fellows.”
Tony climbed on top of the cart, and gazed all round.
“Not a single one of ’em in sight,” he cried; “but they’ll be here soon, you may be sure.”
“Then come and give a hand here with Sam,” answered Phil, pulling out his handkerchief. “I want a pad of linen or something.”
“Here’s the very thing, Phil;” and, pulling his bearskin off, Tony produced a large woollen muffler.
Ripping the seams of the coat with his knife, Phil quickly exposed the wound, and at once bound the muffler round it. Then with Tony’s help he propped Sam with his back against the wheel, and placed the arm in a sling.
“Stay there, old boy,” he said gently, “and as soon as the pain goes off, crawl in behind the boxes. The Russians will not be able to reach you there.”
“Here yer are, mate,” said Tony, handing Phil his bearskin. “It’s about as near a go as you’ll ever want. See, there’s a hole bang through it, and the fur’s all singed off the front.”