“But I want to hear,” said Dickenson. “Go on—the Boer raised his rifle to bash it down on Roby’s head. What then?”
“Well, he didn’t. I was obliged to cut him down. Then the pony jerked itself free and galloped off.”
“And you ran to catch it?” cried Dickenson excitedly.
“Nonsense!” said Lennox, laughing. “Why should I do that? What did I want with the pony, unless it might have been to get poor Roby across its back? But I never thought of it. I only thought of getting him on mine.”
“And did you?” cried Dickenson.
“Of course I did. I wanted to carry him to the rear, poor fellow.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Dickenson.
“Well, don’t shout. What an excitable beggar you are?”
“Go on, then. You keep giving it to me in little bits. What then?”
“Oh, I got him on my back, and it was horrible His wound bled so.”