‘“I am thinkin’ of miself,” ses Do’-no-who. “Sure I’m the boy that can fetch it out.” With that, he lept off and back into the gaz cloud, whilst I did nothin’—may the holy Virgin forgive me! I went on runnin’ and shtrugglin’ to get clear o’ the gaz which was killin’ me.’
Here Murphy broke down and sobbed aloud with the memory.
‘After a wee while,’ he went on presently, ‘whin I’d joined the boys and was for settin’ beside thim, where we was all coughin’ and chokin’ and shpittin’, I saw the stritcher bearers comin’ along. They had been pickin’ up several of us and on the last stritcher of all didn’t I see puir old Do’-no-who? Ooh! but he was pantin’ like a shteam roller and black in the face.
‘“Are ye dead?” ses I intil his ear as he passed me.
‘“I’m not,” he whishpor’d, “only spacheless.”
‘That was all, and I shtaggared on after them. ’Twas the divil’s own tramp to the dressin’ station. I could see them takin’ Do’-no-who in. After a while one of his stritcher bearers came out, so I got spakin’ till him.
‘“Yon’s a grand man,” ses he.
‘“He is. Where did ye find him?” ses I. “I lost him in the misht.”
‘“We caught sight of him comin’ thro’ the gaz,” ses he. “He was rollin’ and shtumblin’ like as he was in drink, but he was bringin’ somethin’ along on his shoulders. We couldn’t see what it was at first. It seemed weighty—he was doubled up under it like a camel. We’d got near him, about fifty yards off, when he giv another big shtumble and over he trip’t and fell over all in a big wee bonch. When we got till him he was shtretched out flat and a machane-gun was lying beside him. Ochone, it’s done for him I’m thinkin’, but sure, hadn’t he the divil’s own pluck to bring it that far?” ses he.’