“Attack, and in force;” cried the Major, crossing to the side of the room, to catch up hurriedly his sword and belt; and he was busy buckling the latter as the bugle rang out the assembly.
By the time he was out in the front the sentries were being driven in, and announced that the Malays were advancing in force; and almost immediately two of the men hurried out of the darkness supporting one of their comrades, who was bleeding profusely from a spear-wound, the weapon thrown by one of the attacking Malays being carried by a fellow-soldier.
The men turned out without the slightest confusion, and fell into their places under the direction of the officers remaining for the defence of the cantonments, and so well had the arrangements been previously planned out that the rush of the advancing enemy from three sides of the cantonments was temporarily checked by the steady fire of the defenders; but not before two more of the sentries had been carried into the mess-room, where the Major, hurrying in to see what was being done, found the Doctor in his shirt-sleeves busily attending to the men’s wounds.
“Oh, there you are, Major!” he said, speaking with a strip of bandage in his mouth. “This looks like my taking command of the expedition, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Impossible,” said the Major. “The brutes are coming on in numbers, and much as I regret what you must feel, I am only too thankful that your party has not started. But there, you see I can do nothing until we have driven these scoundrels back, and then—we shall see.”
“Yes, I know,” grumbled the Doctor.—“You can take hold of one end of that bandage yourself, my lad. That’s right. Nasty cut; but you are not going to lose the number of your mess this time.”
“Oh no, sir!” said the wounded man excitedly. “Tight as you can, please, sir. I think I can go back to the firing-line, and—ah!”
“I don’t,” said the Doctor grimly. “Poor lad—talk about British pluck!”
“Not a bad wound, is it?”
“Quite bad enough,” said the Doctor. “An inch lower, sir—”