“Yes,” said Dickenson; “a regular mess.”
Chapter Three.
On the Qui Vive.
“So it seems,” said the officer above. “But hullo, you! You’re wounded.”
“Pooh! stuff!” said Dickenson shortly; “bit picked out of my ear.”
“But,”—began the head of the rescue party.
“Let it be,” said Dickenson snappishly as he pressed his hand to the injured place. “If I don’t howl about it, I’m sure you needn’t.”