He laughed weakly, and his cousin looked at him anxiously.
“But you are hurt, Dick, old man?”
“Plugged ... with an arrow ... in the ribs. Sibou’s all right, though. And I tried to make him ... leave me ... on the field of glory. B—but he’s a mutinous beggar.”
Weak though he was, there was a reckless gaiety in his manner, which almost moved the corporal to tears.
“Dick, don’t you think you had better not talk? It’s bound to try you, as you are. When we get to the sleds I will look to your wound, and——”
“Not a bit of use, Roger, my boy! I know it, you know it! This finishes me. It was a matter of weeks, before; now it’s a matter of hours.... All the same ... I’d like to ... to see Joy, b-before——”
“You shall, if it’s to be done,” said his cousin as the other’s voice broke. “I’ll take turns with Sibou. Between us we’ll do it, somehow. And I might as well take part of my share now. Sibou must be fagged.”
They stopped and the transfer was effected, then as they resumed their way, the wounded man leaned over his cousin’s shoulder, and whispered—
“Roger you’re a good sort!”