The sergeant had hardly spoken before Dickenson uttered an ejaculation, for the wounded man suddenly dropped down flat again and rolled over, showing as one hand came into sight that he still grasped his rifle; and then he was completely hidden, as if he had sunk into some slight depression.
“Dead!” sighed Dickenson solemnly.
“Looks like it, sir,” said the sergeant quietly.
“Or exhausted by his efforts,” said Dickenson. “Look here, sergeant, a man’s a man.”
“‘For a’ that, and a’ that,’ as the song says,” muttered the sergeant to himself.
“Whether he’s one of our men or an enemy. I can’t lie here, able to help, without going to his help.”
“No, no, sir; you mustn’t stir,” cried the sergeant excitedly. “If you begin to move there’ll be a shower of bullets cutting up the ground about you. It’s a good hundred and fifty yards to crawl.”
“I can’t help that,” said Dickenson quietly. “I must do it.”
“But think of yourself, sir,” said the sergeant.
“A man in my position can’t think of himself, sergeant.”