He drew me into his rough room, and gave me no little pain as he rebandaged my leg, Pomp standing by and looking on.
“Oh, that’s all right, my lad,” said the doctor. “Smarts, of course, but you’ll soon mend up. Very different if it had gone into your chest. Now, Ebony, let’s look at your hand.”
“Pomp, sah,” said the boy with dignity, “not Eb’ny.”
“Oh, well then, Pomp. Now then. How’s the hand?”
“On’y got lil hole in um, sah. Hurt lil bit. Oh! Hurt big bit, you do dat.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said the doctor, examining and rebandaging the wound. “There, that will soon be well if you do not use it. Well, young Bruton, so they burnt you out, did they, last night?”
“Yes,” I said, bitterly.
“Oh, never mind. You heard what was said. Well, let’s go and see what they are doing. We’re non-combatants, eh?”
We walked out into the open square, after the young doctor had admonished the black woman who had been appointed the first nurse to be watchful and attentive to her patient.
There was something going on down by the gate, and I forgot all about the pain in my leg as I accompanied the doctor there, continuing my breakfast on the second slice of bread Pomp handed to me.