“We must wait for daylight, my lad—till the smoke lifts. Ah, what are you doing?”
“On’y wiggling the spear a little, sir,” replied the man gruffly. “Just give a tug at it. Does hurt a bit. I seem to have teared some’at. There, I knowed it! You try, Mr Murray, sir; you can lift it like now, and—yes, that’s it. I’m a-shoving it back’ards and for’ards, and it moves the cross-belt and my shirt, and nothing else.”
“But, my good fellow—” began the officer.
“It’s all right, sir. I’ve shoved my hand right under my shirt and over my shoulder. It’s just bleeding a little, but—well, it’s about the humbuggin’est humbug of a wound I ever knowed a chap to have. Here, Mr Murray sir, you ketch hold of my cross-belt fore and aft, and if his honour wouldn’t mind giving the spear a haul through the belt I shall be as right as can be.”
The two officers obeyed the man’s request and stood holding spear and belt, but hesitated to proceed farther.
“That hurt, my lad?” said the lieutenant.
“Hurt, sir? Not a bit. On’y feels preciously in the way.”
“Got hold tightly, Mr Murray?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, now then.”