The latter had been wounded more seriously than he knew, though, and he had not gone more than three hundred yards further before the loss of blood had so weakened him that he had to stop running and hobble along in a painful, limping gait, leaning heavily upon Slim's shoulder.
"Guess I'll have to quit," he said, a little later on. "Can't go much further." And even as he spoke he sank to the ground.
While Tom Rawle assured him that it "wasn't much of a wound," Slim, who was doing the best he could to stop the flow of blood with his handkerchief, knew that it was a bad injury, indeed, unless it was given early attention.
"I'll try to get one of the others to return," he said, "and then we can send to our lines for a stretcher to get you in."
"Nonsense," said Rawle, "I can walk; I'll show you."
But it was a pitiful effort, and unsuccessful, and Tom himself had to admit that he "guessed he was out of business" for a little while.
Thereupon Slim puckered up his lips and imitated the low but far-carrying call of the whip-poor-will—the call that he and Joe and Jerry had used so much to summon each other at Brighton.
He remained silent for a moment listening, but there was no answer except the distant rumble of the heavy artillery fire. He repeated the call several times. Here and there to the north of them occasional rockets went up from either line, but their brief light divulged nothing in the way of encouragement.
"It's not doing you any good to sit here without attention," said Slim at last. "Here is your revolver right alongside you. I will be back within half an hour. I am going to scout around for help."
"But don't take any chances for me," Tom Rawle warned him. "I guess I could crawl back to camp, at that."