Jack was conscious when they arrived, and Frenchy whipped out a brandy flask and put it in Billjim's hand, saying:
"Give him a dose every now and again while we mend matters. Sit down there facing him. That's right. Now, chaps!"
With a will the great piece of granite was moved from off the crushed and bleeding limb. With deft fingers Frenchy had the trouser leg ripped up above the knee, and then appeared a horribly crushed, shattered thigh. Frenchy shook his head dolefully. "Any one got a small penknife? Ivory or smooth-handled one for preference," he demanded.
"You're not going to cut him?" queried Billjim, without turning her head.
"No, no," said Frenchy; "I want it to put against the vein and stop this bleeding. That'll do nicely," as Travers handed him a knife. "Sit tight, Jack, I must hurt you now."
"Go ahead," said Jack uneasily; "but don't be longer than you can help," and he caught hold of Billjim's hand and remained like that, quiet and sensible, while Frenchy put a ligature round the injured limb and bandaged it up as well as was possible.
"Now, mates," he said, as he finished, "this is a case for Clagton and the doctor at once. No good one going in and fetching the doctor out, it's waste of time, and then he mightn't be able to do anything. So we must pack him on that stretcher and carry him in. Everybody willing?"
Aye, of course they were, though they knew they had fifteen miles to carry a heavy man over gullies and rocks and through scrub and forest.
So Jack was carefully placed on the stretcher.
"Now you had better get home, Billjim, and tell them what has happened," said Frenchy.