“What? What’s that? A woman!” The shock of the ball-wound and the subsequent faintness, kept up by loss of blood, were partly over.
“I am dreadfully weak. What an infernal business! Where am I?”
“In the woods; in the woods. Can you get over to the bush? They might come back.”
“I’ll try. Great Scott! It’s my left shoulder.” And he fell in the effort to get to his feet. “I can’t do it. Get my flask. Ah, that’s better.”
This time he crawled with one arm and Jack’s help to the margin of the clearing, and at last lay among the underbrush.
“Tie a handkerchief, tight, here, around my arm-pit. I don’t think it bleeds. It might. Now lie down, and keep an eye over yonder. In a while I shall be better. What a deuce of a business! Now keep quiet. Are you loaded?”
“Yes—both rifles.”
Jack waited, a hand on his rifle. Presently Carington said, feeling his pocket with the right hand, “George! that’s it. I was a fool. It’s gone! and my watch!”
“How’s that?”
“No matter now. Halloa, Jack, what is that light?”