“Yes, my lad; just in the middle of the worst bit where the stones were falling.”
“That was it—was it? Well, I did wonder they never hit nobody, sir, but I didn’t expect they’d hit me.”
“What are you going to do, my lad?” said the Captain sharply.
“Get up, sir.—Can’t lie here. ’Tain’t soft enough. I’m all right. Only feel silly, as if I’d been heving my fust pipe.—Thanky, Sergeant.—Here, it’s all right; I can stand. Who’s got my ’elmet?”
The poor fellow tottered a little, but the British pluck of his nature made him master the dizzy feeling, and the old familiar boyish grin broke out over his twitching white face as he took hold of the helmet handed to him and tried to put it on.
“Here, I s’y,” he cried, “no larks now; this ain’t in me.”
“Yes, that’s yours, Gedge,” said the Sergeant.
“Got such a dint in it, then, that it won’t go on.”
“No, my lad,” said Bracy. “Here, Sergeant, tie my handkerchief round his head.”
“Yes, sir; thank ye, sir. Here, hold still, Gedge,” cried the Sergeant.