"I've got much the same sort of feeling here," I replied, tapping my chest gingerly.
His face grew grave again, and before doing anything more he fished my flask out of my pocket, and insisted upon my taking a liberal draught of the contents. Not until then would he examine me.
"Your bleeding powers would do credit to a bullock," he commented, as he cut away my shirt: "but beyond loss of blood, I don't think there's much harm done."
His first impression was correct. A cursory examination was quite sufficient to convince him that I was not much hurt.
"Just a nasty furrow," he remarked. "Pretty painful, I suppose. The bullet glanced off, turned by that leather coat of yours, I presume. Lucky for you; as it is, you will be all right in the fortnight."
I felt relieved by his tone, and assured him, when he had patched me up temporarily with strips torn from my shirt-sleeves and my own handkerchief, that I felt very little of the injury.
"Now take my seat," he said, as he buttoned my coat round me. "I think I have had enough experience of motoring to ensure my taking you in safety to the nearest surgeon. It's infernally bad luck, though," he continued. "I would swear one of us must have hit our friend, and if we were only in a position to follow him up, we should be pretty certain to effect a capture."
My mind had been considerably relieved to find that I was not seriously injured, and the dose of whisky I had taken had pulled me together.
"You've bound me up pretty tightly?" I asked.
"You are right enough until we find a doctor," he answered.