“Yes, out of the tree, of course,” said the captain; “but mind—steady! Here, let me. I won’t hurt you more than I can help,” he continued, as he drew the spear out of the palm, and then hesitated as to how they were to manage to carry the injured man, with the lengthy shaft passing through his chest.
Tom Long solved the question himself by taking hold of the spear handle with both hands and giving it a tug, while every one present gazed at him with horror, expecting to see the terrible stains that must follow.
Bob Roberts dragged out his handkerchief and rapidly doubled it, ready to form a pad to staunch the bleeding—rushing forward to clap it to the wound, as the ensign tore the spear from his breast.
“Open his tunic first,” cried Captain Smithers; and he bore Tom Long back on to the ground, tearing open his scarlet uniform, while the injured object of his attentions began to work his left arm about.
“I say, gently,” he said. “I don’t think I’m much hurt.”
“You don’t feel it yet,” cried Bob Roberts.
“Look out there!” cried a voice in authority somewhere behind; and then a couple of men ran up with a light hospital litter for wounded or sick men.
“It went—it went—” said Tom Long, slowly.
“Why, confound you, Long,” said Captain Smithers; “you’ve not been scratched.”
“No; I do not think I am,” said the ensign, getting up, feeling himself carefully about the chest. “It went through my tunic and under my left arm.”