“And how long have I been lying here?”
“Probably forty minutes, but there’s no knowing. Just beyond Banda, we are, and we’ll have to walk back. And the woods is fair crawling with things. Probably ferocious.”
“My fault, Hatch . . . .”
“Shut your ’ead.” Hatch swabbed away with the cotton waste. “Why—why, my lad—I thought you was done for—” His voice broke again, and he pulled himself together. “Now, if you think you can get up,—with the help of my arm—”
Loch staggered to his feet. The night swung about him, pierced with fires of pain. He thought it was the earth that reeled, and did not know that Hatch was holding him erect by main strength. He took a few steps, and a little strength came back.
“That’s better, sir,” said Hatch, who had again taken refuge in sarcasm. “Keep it up, and we’ll be in Banda for lunch.”
“Banda?” said Loch. “O, but we’re not going back to Banda, Hatch. We’re going on.”
“Going on . . . .”
“Why, yes.—Can’t you tie that stuff round my head? Take the sleeve of my coat, then.”
“The sleeve’s wet, too. You’re pretty well cut about. I’ll rip out mine . . . . Did I understand you to say, sir, as we were going on to Mr. Lewis?”