"See if there are matches in Preston Sahib's pocket," said the girl.
But Mahmed drew the line at that. In his quaint English he explained, giving several reasons that seemed puerile.
"I suppose it's hardly fair to get him to do what I daren't do myself," thought the girl. Then, summoning up her resolution, she leant over the stroke-thwart, and shudderingly groped for the Acting Chief's pockets.
To her delight she found a box of Swedish matches in the breast pocket of Preston's drill patrol jacket. Before she could withdraw her hand the supposedly dead man moved slightly, but none the less perceptibly. That altered the situation. Olive was no longer dealing with a corpse, but with a living person. Instinctively she placed her hand over Preston's heart. It was beating very feebly.
"Here are matches, Mahmed!" she exclaimed. "Light the lamp quickly. Preston Sahib is not dead."
It seemed an interminable delay before Mahmed succeeded in getting the lamp lighted. The matches were damp, the wick wanted trimming, and the colza oil was a long time before it gave out a flame.
At length the lamp was lighted, and there was quite a steady light, and the transition from utter darkness imparted confidence.
Giving a hasty look at Mrs. Shallop, to see that she was still in the recovering stage, Olive turned to the more important work in hand.
Preston looked a ghastly sight. One side of his face had been badly injured, while the concussion had caused blood to ooze from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
Olive's first step was to wash the injured man's face and moisten his lips with water. She had the good sense to use salt water for the washing process, knowing that the contents of the water-beaker were likely to be more precious than gold before the adventure was over. Then, pillowing the patient's head on a sail and covering him with a piece of tarpaulin, she debated as to what was to be done next.