“And it has affected the nerves so that I am going to be helpless for the rest of my life—a poor invalid, whose fate is to be carried about or wheeled everywhere.”
“Don’t believe it,” said Roberts shortly. “Who told you that stuff?”
“My own instinct. You know I cannot move hand or foot.”
“Not yet. Nature has bound you down so that your wound may not be disturbed till it is well.”
“There, don’t talk about it,” said Bracy quickly. “I want to know how things are going on. I don’t hear half enough.”
“All right, old man,” cried Roberts cheerfully. “You shall have it in brief. This is a hole—we’re in a hole—the Dwats, bless ’em! are like the sand upon the seashore, and they come sliding into the hole. Then we shovel ’em out, and just like sand they come trickling down again upon us. Now it’s down one of the gullies, now it’s down another; and the more we kill the more seem to come on.”
“Yes—yes—yes,” sighed Bracy; “just as it has been from the first. We ought to have reinforcements.”
“That’s right, and I dare say some have been sent; but the tribes south and east have all risen, and are holding them in check, so we’ve got to do the work here ourselves.”
“How are the supplies?”
“Tidy—tidy; and we keep on fretting a little game, only it’s risky work; and I never feel as if I should get back again when I’m out shooting. Had some narrow escapes.”