He hurried back to the wounded man, who had recovered somewhat from his shock and was now lying on his side quietly moaning. Barry got from him the names and units of the men who had been killed.
“I will drop a note to your mother, too, my boy,” he said, “and tell her about your wound.”
“Oh, sir,” said the boy quickly—he was only a boy after all—“don't tell her—at least, tell her I'm all right. I'll be all right, won't I?”
“Sure thing,” said Barry, “don't you fear. I won't alarm her, and I'll tell her what good stuff you are, boy.”
“All right, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the boy quietly.
“And I'll tell her, too, that you are not worrying a bit, and that you know that you are in the keeping of your Heavenly Father. How is that?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy in a low voice. “I will be glad to have you tell her that. She taught me all that, sir. Poor mother, she'll worry though, I know,” he added with a little catch in his throat.
“Now you brace up,” said Barry firmly. “You have got off mighty well. You have got a nice little blighty there, and you are going to be all right. I'll give your mother the best report about you, so that she won't worry.”
“Oh, thank you,” said the boy, with fervent gratitude, “that will be fine. And you are right,” he added, a note of resolution coming into his voice. “I got off mighty well, and it's only my left arm, thank goodness. I'll brace up, sir, never fear,” he added between his teeth, choking back a groan.
Barry accompanied the stretcher-bearer back to the chateau and gave the man over into the care of the C. A. M. C.