“Yes,” said Doctor Chowne, “on his coat. Only going to rip it off, man. What a fuss you do make about your boy!”
“But tell me, Chowne,” cried my father, “is he badly hurt?”
“Badly hurt? No. A few ribs broken seemingly. I’ll soon bandage him up.”
He did, and very painful it was; but at the same time it seemed to give me strength and confidence, as he wound the stout bandage round and round and left Bob grinning at me as he fastened the ends, while he went to another patient.
“Been a regular fight, then?” said Bob, who kept on questioning me, and making me tell him everything, though I felt as if I could hardly speak.
“Yes,” I said, “terrible.”
“But old Big; where’s he?”
“Wounded, and keeping watch where the Frenchmen went.”
“Old Big wounded, eh? And a regular fight—French and English too. Well, of all the shabby mean beggars that ever lived, you and old Bigley are about the two worst.”
“What do mean?” I cried angrily.