“Excuse me, sir; I’m dismounted,” said the sergeant, “and I’d rather walk, please.”
“Thank you, James,” said Dickenson. “I’ll take your offer, for I’m nearly done up myself.”
“You keep still, then, sir.—Dismount, my lads, and help to get Mr Lennox into the saddle.—Rest on me, sir; I’ve got you. Sure you’re not wounded, sir?”
There was no reply; but the sergeant, who had passed his arm round his young officer’s waist, felt him subside, and if the hold had not been tightened he would have sunk to the ground.
“Got him?” cried Dickenson.
“Yes, sir; all right. Fainted.”
“Fainted?”
“Yes, sir. Regular exhaustion, I suppose. We’ll get him into the saddle, and I think the best way will be for me to got up behind and hold him on, for he’s regularly given up now that he has fallen among friends.”
“But the pony: will it carry you both?”
“Oh yes, sir—at a walk. They’re plucky little beasts, sir. But we’ve got him, sir, and that’s what I didn’t expect. I suppose we mustn’t cheer?”