“You’re coming around all right, Buddy, cried Billy, holding a wet and loving hand upon Henri’s forehead.
“The pain is in my right shoulder,” advised Henri; “I have just begun to feel it. Guess that is where the bullet went in.”
“Let me see it.” Billy assumed a severe professional manner. The attempt, however, to remove the jacket sleeve from the injured arm brought forth such a cry of pain from Henri that Billy drew back in alarm.
“Ask the woman for a pair of shears,” suggested Henri, “and cut away the sleeve.”
“Hi, there!” called Billy to the old woman, who had risen from the basket seat, but still all of a tremble.
“Get her here,” urged Henri. “I can make her understand.”
Billy, bowing and beckoning, induced the woman to approach.
Henri, politely:
“Madame, j’ai ete blesse. Est-ce que nous restons ici?” (Madam, I have been wounded. Can we rest here?)
“Je n’ecoute pas bien. J’appelerai, Marie.” (I do not hear good. I will call Marie.)