An N. C. O. of the R. A. M. C. tried to push Malcolm back from the window.
“Here, you go to hell,” cried Malcolm fiercely. “It's my brother I've got.”
The N. C. O., widely experienced in these tragic scenes, hesitated a moment. An officer, coming up behind him, with a single glance took in the situation.
“My boy,” he said kindly, placing his hand on Malcolm's arm, “we want to get these poor chaps as soon as possible where they will be comfortable.”
Malcolm sprang back at once, saluting.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Certainly, sir.” And backing across the tracks, stood looking across at the window from which his brother, wearied with his effort, had disappeared.
Meantime the R. A. M. C. were busy with their work. With marvellous rapidity and speed the train was unloaded of its pathetic freight, the carrying cases into ambulances and the walking cases into cars and wagons.
“Good-bye, Mac,” called a voice as a car was driving off. It was Ewen again. The wounded man spoke to the driver, who immediately pulled up and swung over to the platform where Malcolm was standing.
“Oh, are you sure, Ewen, you are goin' to be all right? Man, you look awful white.”
“All right, Mac. You bet I will. It's only my arm,” said Ewen, his brave, bright words in pathetic contrast to his white face.