The men cheered again, and in a very short time the two barrels stood under the tail-boards of two wagons, only awaiting the flashing-off of a box of matches to start a fire that no efforts could check.
“Here is the ambulance party,” cried Dickenson. “Come with me now, sergeant. Let your corporals finish what there is to do.”
“I don’t see that there’s any more to do, sir,” said the sergeant, wiping his wet face. “Want me, sir?”
“Yes; I’ve something to say. You will go down and see the wounded off. Oh dear! oh dear! I’ve been thinking of what we were doing, and not of poor Mr Lennox. You’ve heard nothing, I suppose?”
“Neither heard nor seen, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Seems to me that, in his plucky way, he must have dashed at the enemy, got mixed, and they somehow swept him off.”
“If they did,” said Dickenson, “he’ll be too sharp for them, and get away.”
“That he will, sir.”
“I was afraid the poor fellow was killed.”
“Not he, sir,” cried the sergeant. “He’d take a deal of killing. Besides, we should have found him and brought him in. He’ll turn up somewhere.”
“Ha! You make me feel better, James,” said Dickenson. “It took all the spirit out of me. Now then, I’ve some bad news for you.”