I looked beside me, and caught a glimpse of the dead man. It was Dick Bird, shot dead as he tried to escape.
“Now you,” said the doctor. “Where’s all this blood from?”
“Not mine,” I whispered, half strangled.
“Humph! Whose then? One more.”
This was as another man was carried along, and laid on my other side.
“Eh?” said the doctor. “Stabbed, eh? How was this?”
“Number Seventy, sir—Bird—knifed him. It was a dodge,” said Fraser.
“Dodge, eh?” said the doctor, whose hands were busy with tourniquets and bandages. “Rum sort of dodge! What do you mean?”
“The men had planned to rise, sir, and that Bird was the ringleader.
“He shammed ill, and poor Rowan went to help him, to see what was wrong before calling you. Then Bird caught him by the throat and was strangling him, when this poor fellow, Ninety-seven—Nick—out here for picking pockets, went to Rowan’s help. He had warned us just before dark, but we thought it a flam; and now, when he tried to save my mate, Bird turned upon him and stabbed him.”