“Are you much hurt, old fellow?” he cried hoarsely, as he realised the fact that the keen spear had passed diagonally through the youth’s breast before it buried itself in the soft endogenous tree.
“I don’t know yet,” said Tom Long quietly; “but the brutes have ruined my best tunic.”
“Hang your tunic!” cried Bob, excitedly. “Here, fetch the doctor. No; help here to get Mr Long to the residency. Bring up a dhooly.”
“I suppose I shall feel it when they draw out the spear,” said Tom Long calmly.
“Do you feel faint?” cried the middy. “Here, who has a little rack?”
“Here’s some water, sir, in my canteen,” said Sergeant Lund. “Forward!” rang out from behind just then; and then the voice of Captain Smithers made itself heard,—
“Who’s that down?”
“Ensign Long, sir,” some one said.
“Poor lad! poor lad!” cried the captain. “Ah, Long, my dear boy, how is it with you? Good heavens! Quick, my lads; bring up a dhooly.”
“Hadn’t we better get the spear out, sir?” said Bob Roberts, anxiously.