At the sound of the familiar but rather unsteady tones and the touch of a hand Jimmy whirled to find Bob beside him. The latter's face was grimy, a little stream of blood trickled down one cheek from a shallow gash high up toward his left eye.
"Bob!" Jimmy grabbed his bunkie and fairly hugged him. "You're hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Just a scratch. I can hardly feel it. A Fritzie bullet shinned past me and broke the skin. I just used my first-aid dressing on a fellow in my squad."
"Let me fix you up."
Jimmy hurriedly reached for his first-aid packet, took from it his last bit of antiseptic gauze and applied it to the bleeding gash, careful not to touch it with his fingers. As Bob had declared, it was hardly more than a scratch.
"I'd plaster it up," he said, as he staunched the bleeding, "but you'd better hike down to first-aid post and have it looked after there. You mustn't run chances of infection."
"I started for first-aid when I bumped into you. You're a welcome sight, believe me, Blazes!" Bob spoke with an intensity of affection. "I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you standing there. Not a scratch on you, you good old scout! How any of us managed to live through that fracas beats me. Under fire, at last! Well, I guess so!"
"Maybe I'm not just as glad to see you!" Jimmy's gray eyes shone. His brief flash of joy changing to anxiety he asked: "Bob, have you seen any of the fellows? We've got to find out——"
"Rodge is all right," Bob quickly responded. "I saw him right after things quieted down. He's looking up Schnitz and Iggy now. As soon as I get this Boche memento plastered up I'm to meet him at the dugout we were in yesterday. He'll have found out about the boys by then."
"Go to it and get plastered, then. I'm going after Rodge. Look out while you're in the communication trench. If you hear a whishing sound, duck for cover. The Boches are likely to send over shrapnel, 'cause they know the stretcher men are using that communication trench now."