"Oh, that, sir? That's a bit of the doctor's nonsense. He said I was to keep it on, so I suppose I must. But it isn't a wound." "What is it, then?" said Denham sharply. "Bullet cut my finger; that's all." "Did it cut it much?" asked Denham. "Took a little bit off, and I went to the doctor for a piece o' sticking-plaster, and he as good as called me a fool." "What did you say, then, to make him?" "I said nothing, sir, only that I wanted the plaster." "Did he give you some?" "No, sir; but I suppose he wanted to try his new bag o' tools, and got hold of me. `Hold still,' he says, `or I shall give you chloroform.' `Can't you make it a drop o' whisky, sir?' I says. `Yes, if you behave yourself,' he says. `Look here, I can't plaster up a place like this. Your finger's in rags, and the bone's in splinters.' `Oh, it'll soon grow together, sir,' I says. `Nothing of the kind, sir,' he says; `it'll go bad if I don't make a clean job of it. Now then, shut your eyes, and sit still in that chair. I won't hurt you much.'" "Did he?" said Denham. "Pretty tidy, sir; just about as much as he could. He takes out a tool or two, and before I knew where I was he'd made a clean cut or two and taken off some more of my finger, right down to the middle joint. `There,' he says, as soon as he'd put some cotton-wool soaked with nasty stuff on the place, after sewing and plastering it up--`there, that'll heal up quickly and well now!'" "Of course," said Denham. "Made a clean job of it." "Clean job, sir?" said the Sergeant. "Well, yes, he did it clean enough, and so was the lint and stuff; but it's made my finger so ugly. It looks horrid. I say, sir, do you think the finger'll grow again?" "No, Briggs, I don't; so you must make the best of it." "But crabs' and lobsters' claws grow again, sir; for I've seen 'em do it at home, down in Cornwall." "Yes; but we're not crabs and lobsters, Sergeant. There, never mind about such a bit of a wound as that." "I don't, sir--not me; but it do look ugly, and feels as awkward as if I'd lost an arm. There, I must be off, sir. I've got to see to our poor fellows who are to go off in a wagon back to the town." "How many were hurt?" said Denham eagerly. "Five; and pretty badly, too." "Any one--" Then Denham stopped short. "No, sir, not one, thank goodness; but those lads won't be on horseback again these two months to come. Doctor wanted me to go with the wagon, but I soon let him know that wouldn't do." "Poor fellows!" said Denham as soon as the Sergeant had gone. "That's the horrible part of it, getting wounded and being sent back to hospital. It's what I dread." "You won't attempt to mount to-day?" I said. "You'd better follow in one of the wagons." "Think so?" he said quietly. "Well, we shall see."