“Almost got your wish, Bracy. Wrong man down.”
As Roberts spoke he and Bracy dashed to where two of the privates had pulled up to aid their comrade, who had pitched head first into the clump of growth ahead of where he was running.
“Don’t say you’ve got it badly, Gedge,” cried Bracy huskily, helping the men as they raised the lad, who stared from one to the other in a half-dazed way.
“Habet,” muttered Roberts, with his face contracting.
“Eh?” panted the lad at last, as he tried to pull himself together.
“Here—where is it?” cried Drummond excitedly. “Where are you hurt?”
“Oh, my toe!” cried the lad. “Ketched it on a stone outer sight, sir. My! I did go down a rum un.”
“Not wounded?” cried Bracy joyfully.
“Not me, sir! Yah! they can’t shoot. Here, I say, mateys, where’s my bay’net? There it is.”
Gedge limped to where it lay with the hilt just visible amongst the shrubs, and he made a dart to get it, but overrated his powers. He seized the bayonet from where it had been jerked by his fall, but went down upon his face in the act, and when raised again he looked round with a painful grin upon his lips.