Lennox was called, and Dickenson’s eyes dilated and then seemed to contract, for there was no reply.
“Mr Lennox.—Who saw Mr Lennox last?”
There was no answer for some seconds, and then from where the wounded lay a feeble voice said, “I saw him running round one of the wagons, sir, just in the thick of the fight.”
“He must be down,” said the major sadly. “Look for him, my lads; he is somewhere on the ground we came along, lying perhaps amongst the Boers.”
Dickenson groaned—perhaps it was from pain, for his injury throbbed, pangs running right up into the shoulder-joint, and then up the left side of his neck.
“Oh! don’t say poor old Drew’s down,” he said to himself. “Just, too, when I was growling at him for not coming to look me up when I was hurt.”
No one did say he was down but the young lieutenant’s imagination, and he sat down on a rock and began watching the men coming and going after bringing in wounded men.
“Who said he saw Mr Lennox last?” cried Captain Edwards.
“I did,” said the wounded man in a feeble, whining voice.
“Who’s that?” said the major, stepping towards the man, who lay with his face disfigured by a smear of blood.