Trim’s heart sank like lead. It seemed to him at that instant as if the capture of all the criminals in the world was not worth the life of his faithful old friend.
He turned from the enemy and bent hastily over Dobbin.
“It’s not a fatal wound, old fellow!” he cried. “Keep your courage up! I shall take care of you whatever happens.”
“Don’t mind me, lad, fight it out!” groaned Dobbin.
“Fire, men!” cried Trim, now thoroughly aroused to make a fight in behalf of his wounded companion.
The men needed no second bidding, but before they had fired a shot the three whites had turned about and ran for the cover of the forest.
Trim’s men shot wildly. None of the whites were hit, and the little battle ended therefore with a complete upsetting of Trim’s plans and with the only damage inflicted upon his side.
“It’s another case of retreat,” he said to himself. “If I don’t get Dobbin out of this the poor old fellow will be done for.
“We’ve got to get under cover ourselves and get out of this.”
He called one of the whites to him and between them they got Dobbin under the shelter of one of the trees. The old sailor groaned with pain, and Trim saw that his wound needed a good deal of attention.