“Humph!” growled Wyatt. “Seems more like our being beaten in.”
“Yes, sir. He said, too, that he should like to see Captain Hulton as soon as he could come.”
“Then he will have to wait some time,” muttered Wyatt. “Here, stay with Mr Darrell, Sergeant. Do all you can to help him, and then see to the men who are well enough being moved. We must have another room for them.”
Wyatt stepped to the wounded men, said a few encouraging words to them, and then, telling his brother-officer he would be back as soon as possible, he went out to see to the prospects of defence, in case the enemy should obtain a lodgment in the city.
“What can I do, sir?” said the sergeant, crossing to where his young officer was busy with the wounded men.
“Anything, Stubbs. Hold this poor fellow up while I see to his wound.”
“Right, sir. Who is it? Oh, it’s you, Dundas.—Slit the linen right down, sir; that’s the way.—How are you, my lad?”
“Bit sicky, Sergeant.—’Tar’n’t much, is it, sir?”
“I hope not,” said Dick. “The bullet is embedded in the muscles of the back. I will not attempt to extract it—only stop the bleeding.”
“Pretty sort of a fellow you are, Joe Dundas, to get a wound like that,” said the sergeant, holding a brass basin of water for the amateur surgeon to use. “I should be ashamed of it!”