“Oh, not quite killed,” he said. “Gently; don’t shake a fellow to pieces.”
“Where’s the wound?” cried Bob. “Ain’t going to send in the number of your mess, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” cried Tom Long, flushing up; “and if I ever do come across the chief fellow who gave me such a nasty dig, he’ll remember it to the end of his days.”
“What was it—a spear or a kris?” said Bob.
“Kris, right through my left shoulder. Doctor Bolter says if it had been four inches lower it would have been fatal.”
“Bother!” cried Bob. “If it had been four inches higher it would have missed you altogether.”
“Yes, of course,” said Tom; “but it’s precious unpleasant to have a fellow stick his skewer right through you.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Bob, who had made up his mind that the proper thing was to try and cheer the ensign, and not to let him think he was very bad. “I think I’d just as soon have it right through as only half-way.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to laugh at, I can tell you,” said Tom Long, “I don’t see why you mightn’t just as well have had it as me. You always get off all right.”
“I didn’t last night, or rather this morning,” said Bob. “I was right into the prahu we tried to take—first man, sir—I mean boy, sir; and I was sawing away at a mat with my knife, when all came down by the run, and I was pitched into the river.”