“That’s right; then stick to it. I like to see a man back up his friend.”
“Who wouldn’t back him up?” cried Dickenson.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s very evident that Roby won’t.”
“Roby’s as mad as a March hare,” cried Dickenson.
“Well, not quite; but he’s a bit queer in his head, and I’m afraid I shall have to perform rather a crucial operation upon him. I don’t want to if I can help it, out here. It requires skilled help, and I should like some one to share the responsibility.”
“Internally injured?” asked Dickenson.
“Oh no. The bullet that ploughed up his forehead is pressing a piece of bone down slightly on the brain.”
“Slightly!” said Dickenson, with a laugh. “Turned it right over, I think.”
“Yes, you fellows who know nothing about your construction do get a good many absurd ideas in your head. Here, talk softly; I want to get at the cause of his trouble. He’s not wounded.”
“Why, his skull’s ploughed up, and the bone pressing on his brain.”