“Oh, Lord, my leg’s broke, man; I can’t hurt you.”
“Rats.”
“God, man; I’d not leave you, if you’d got a broken leg.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“The bone’s coming through the calf of me leg; I’m just bleeding away.”
Hi did not answer this; the man went on:
“It’s pretty poor goods,” he said, “when an Englishman will leave another Englishman to rot in agony. Oh, the torment, it’s awful. I feel it corrupting the blood.”
Hi was touched by the man’s moans, but did not answer. The man groaned some more.
“Young fellow,” he said, “if I die, and I am dying, you’ll take my love to my poor mother? Mrs. Jones, her name is. She lives at No. 27, Cowpop Street, Sale, Cheshire. It’s the only house in the street with a brass knocker. Say my last thought was of her. And I want you to sing “Rock of Ages” over my tomb. It’s cruel to die in a foreign land, but I’d rest better after “Rock of Ages”. Won’t you come and just hold my head up; I can’t breathe; there’s darkness coming. Lift me; won’t you lift me?”
“No, I won’t,” Hi said.