“That the English never know when they are beaten. We don’t know when we are beaten, and our lads are like us. God bless them, poor fellows, for they are as patient as can be!”
“What do you advise, then?” said the major. “It is your duty to advise.”
“I did advise,” said the doctor, laughing. “I proposed lopping off the bad limb of our little party, so as to leave the rest free to hobble on.”
“And suppose I had consented to it,” said the major; “made the sick and wounded as comfortable as we could, and pushed on with the rest, what would you do?”
“Do?” said Doctor Bolter; “I don’t understand you.”
“I mean, of course you would have to come with us; for the Malays would butcher the poor fellows as soon as they came up.”
“Come with you, major? Are you mad? Why, who would tend the poor boys, and see to their bandages? No, my dear Sandars. Your place is with the sound, mine is with the unsound. Go on with your lot—poor fellows—and see if you can reach the river. You might perhaps send help in time to save us. If you didn’t, why, I should have made them comfortable to the end, and done my duty.”
“My dear doctor,” said Major Sandars, holding out his hand.
“My dear major,” said the doctor. “Good-bye, then; and God bless you!”
“What!” cried the major. “And did you think I was going?”