“Rats? Holes?” said Bracy feebly. “What’s the matter?”
“Not much, I hope, sir; on’y you’ve got hit. Whereabouts is it? Ah, needn’t ask,” he muttered as he saw a dark mark beginning to show on the left breast of the young officer’s tunic, and spreading like a big blot on a writing-pad.
“Hit? Nonsense—ah!” Bracy uttered a low groan, and clapped his right hand across to cover the spot.
“Yes, sir. Jus’ there,” said Gedge; “but don’t you mind. It’s too high up to be dangerous, I know. Now, then. Amb’lance dooty. Must practice; I ain’t forgot that.”
Gedge gave a sharp look round and up and down the defile, before laying down his gun and taking out a bandage and some lint.
“Hold still, sir,” he said, drawing his breath through his teeth afterwards with a hiss, as he rapidly stripped open his officer’s jacket, and then tore away the shirt, to lay bare his white breast, where, just below the collar-bone, an ugly red patch showed itself.
“Sponge and cold water,” muttered Gedge; “and I ain’t got ’em.” Then aloud: “That hurt yer, sir?” for he was examining the wound.
“Never mind that; go on,” said Bracy faintly. “Plug the wound.”
“Right, sir. Jus’ going to.—One o’ their ugly bits o’ hiron,” muttered the lad as he stopped the effusion of blood in a rough-and-ready way which must have been agonising to the sufferer, who, however, never winced.
“That’s done it, sir; but I must turn you over to fasten the bandage.”