“Yes; but look here, Drew, old man,” cried Dickenson, “if you get on that topic I must go.”
“No, no; stay. I want to separate the fancy from the real. I’ve got an idea in my head that Roby turned upon me in a fit of raving, and called me a coward and a cur for running away and leaving him. Did I dream that?”
“No,” said Dickenson huskily. “He has been a good deal off his head. He did shout something of that sort at you.”
“Poor fellow!” said Lennox quietly. “But how horrible! Shot in the forehead, wasn’t he?”
“Bullet ploughed open the top of his head.”
“I didn’t see what was wrong with him in the rush. I can remember now, quite clearly, seeing him go down, with his face streaming with blood.”
“You recollect that?” said Dickenson excitedly, in spite of himself.
“Oh yes. The light was coming fast, and we were near where a lot of the Boers were making for their mounts to get them away. One big fellow was leading his pony, and as poor Roby was straggling blindly about, this Boer ran at him, holding his rein in one hand, his rifle in the other, and I saw him shorten it with his right to turn it into a club to bring it down on Roby’s head.”
“All!” cried Dickenson, with increasing excitement, and he waited by Lennox, who ceased speaking, and lay gazing calmly at the door. Then all the doctor’s warnings were forgotten, and the visitor said hoarsely, “Well, go on. Why don’t you speak?”
“Oh, I don’t want to begin blowing about what I did,” said Lennox quietly.