In a few minutes both officers were there. The boat was within fifty yards, when the subaltern joined his captain; and the oarsmen, evidently desirous of doing their best in the presence of the commanding officer, were polling silently and with a vigor that soon brought it to its accustomed berth.
“What body is that, Corporal Nixon?” inquired the latter, “and how is it that you are only here this morning?”
“Sir,” answered the corporal, removing one of his hands from the steer-oar, and respectfully touching his cap, “it's poor Le Noir, the Frenchman, killed by the Injins yesterday, and as for our absence, it couldn't be helped, sir; but it's a long report I have to make, and perhaps, captain, you would like to hear it more at leisure than I can tell it here.”
By this time the men had landed from the boat, leaving the Canadian to be disposed of afterwards as the commanding officer might direct. The quick eye of the latter immediately detected the slight limping of Green, whose wound had become stiff from neglect, cold, and the cramped position in which he had been sitting in the boat.
“What is the matter with this man?” he inquired of the corporal. “What makes him walk so stiffly?”
“Nothing much the matter, captain,” was the indifferent reply. “It's only a ball he got in his leg in the scrimmage last night.”
“Ha! the first gun-shot wound that has come under my treatment during the three long years I have been stationed here. Quick, my fine fellow, take yourself to the hospital, and tell the orderly to prepare my instruments for probing.”
“Scrimmage last night; what do you mean, Corporal Nixon—whom had you the scrimmage with?”
These remarks fell at the same moment from the lips of the commander and those of the surgeon, the latter rubbing his hands with delightful anticipation of the treat in store for him.
“With the Indians, captain,” replied Nixon; “the Indians that attacked Mr. Heywood's farm.”