“I'm glad to see you, sir,” he said quietly, reaching out his hand.
“Good old man,” said Barry, gripping his hand hard, “but you are a blamed old fool, you know.”
McCuaig made no reply, but there was a happy light on his face. Under Duff's compelling urging they got the wounded man on a stretcher and started on their long and painful carry.
“Now, boys,” warned Duff, “you are all right up here, except for machine guns, but don't take any chances further out. That's where the danger is. When the shells come, don't rush things. Take your time. Now, good-bye, Pilot, it's worth a lot to have seen you anyway.”
“Good-bye, old man,” said Barry, smiling at him. “You're the stuff. Good luck, old man. God keep you.”
Duff nodded, and waved him away. The return trip was made in comparative quiet.
“What do you think, doctor?” said Barry, after the M. O. had completed his examination.
“Oh, we'll pull him through all right,” said the M. O. “When did you get this, McCuaig?” he continued, touching a small wound over the kidney.
“Dunno, rightly. Guess I got it when we was blown up, yesterday.”
“Then why didn't you come in at once?” inquired the M. O. indignantly.