On the way the Lamp-post stumbled once, and the wounded man let out a groan: "For God's sake be careful!"—but they got him into the trench and laid him down. Then the Lamp-post crumpled up. "Something gave me an awful whack when I stumbled," he said; "I believe I'm hit," and put his hand to his side.
Bubbles, frightened, made him lie down, and examined him. "There's no blood outside—I can't find any—oh! but look here!" and he lifted up the field-glass case. It had a slanting hole right across it, and when he wrenched out the glasses themselves, the "joining" piece had a ragged notch in it, and a small piece of torn white metal had been caught in it.
"My aunt! Old chap, that's a bit of nickel casing—a bullet hit it—you are a lucky chap! If you hadn't put those glasses away you'd have been a 'deader'."
The two snotties examined the field-glasses eagerly, and passed them to the men close by. They all looked at the Lamp-post as if they envied him very much, and Bubbles kept on gurgling: "You are a lucky chap, Lampy!"
They hunted to see if there was a bruise under the Lamp-post's shirt, and were disappointed when they found none.
"It feels jolly sore," the Lamp-post said as he felt the place.
"There'll sure to be a bruise to-morrow," Bubbles gurgled excitedly; "you are a lucky beggar."
By this time the stretcher-parties were already out, and they handed over their wounded "knee" man to some of them. The others went up past the trench towards the firing-line, searching the grass and bushes. The two snotties watched them moving about. They would go across to a bush, stoop down, and Bubbles and the Lamp-post would know that a man was lying hidden there. If someone sat up between them, or they put down and opened out their stretcher, they knew they had found a wounded man. If nothing happened, and they went on with their stretcher, still folded, they knew that it was a dead man who was lying there.
More soldiers now began coming up the gully, extending in long lines as they debouched at the top of it. They turned to the left, coming over the trench, and marching up to the slope behind and to the left. A bluejacket shouted out: "Who are you, matey?" "Essex!" they called back as they scrambled past, panting beneath their heavy packs. A youthful subaltern, struggling under the weight of his, stopped a moment to get Bubbles and the Lamp-post to hold it up, whilst he pulled the webbing-straps more tightly.
"Thanks! that's better," and off he went.