With a cheer, half a dozen men—one of whom was Jerry—sprang in through the burning woodwork, and dragged both out into safety, to be borne directly after—just recognisable as a bandsman and an officer—through the mess-room to where the doctors were hard at work, but so far without having had one serious case.
Dick was the first to come to, just as the colonel hurried in for a few moments to inquire how the two injured men were, and came up to where the doctor was kneeling by the young fellow, applying cottonwool and oil to his burned hands.
“How is he?” said the colonel, anxiously.
“Ask him,” said the doctor, shortly; “he can speak for himself—can’t you, my lad?”
“Oh, yes, sir. My hands smart a good deal; but how is that man I ran back to get out?”
“You ran back to get him out, my lad?” said the colonel.
“Yes; I kicked against him. He was pinned down by some trestles and a tent-pole,” said Dick, speaking in a feverish, excited way. “Do tell me how he is.”
“Rather bad yet, so one of my colleagues says,” replied the doctor.
The colonel hurried across the room to where two doctors were attending the officer, who was giving them great cause for anxiety, for he had been burned a good deal about one side of the head, and had been so nearly suffocated that a long course of the treatment used for the apparently drowned had been necessary before he began to breathe regularly again.
The colonel stood by the improvised couch for some minutes before some words uttered by the doctor in attendance relieved him sufficiently to enable him to return to help the members of his mess and allay the sufferings and anxieties of the guests.