“Your fellows behaved better, I s’pose?” said Barkins.
“Not a bit,” I said. “We’ve got a man stabbed just in the same way—” and I told him of our adventures.
“They’re nice ones,” said Barkins sourly. “I don’t think our chaps will want to take many prisoners next time. But I say, what a crusher for them—all four junks, and not a man to go back and tell the tale.”
“It’s glorious,” I cried, forgetting the horrors in our triumph.
“For you,” said Barkins sourly.
“Why for me? You and poor old Smith did your part. Don’t be so jolly envious.”
“Envious? Come, I like that,” he cried. “If you felt as if something red-hot was being stuck in your leg you’d feel envious too. You’re the luckiest beggar that ever was, and never get hurt or anything.”
“No more do you,” I said, laughing.
“Oh, don’t I? What do you call that, then?” he cried, swinging his legs round, for he was sitting with one of them under the table.
To my horror and astonishment, I saw that his leg was bandaged, and a red stain was showing through.