"Here he is, sir!" and saw comrades close, though their voices sounded somehow a long way off. "My eye, you have had a good bout, mate;" one said to him, "but where is the other fellow?" "In there," replied Kavanagh, faintly; "don't kill him, he's a good 'un." "Dinna kill him, indeed!" said Macintosh, presently, as he bent over the body of the Arab and took his scarf for bandages. "There's nae much need for any one to do that!" Kavanagh's wounds were rudely bound up, just to check the bleeding for the present, and the officer having some spirits in a flask gave him a drain, and asked him if he thought he could walk down to camp. Being somewhat revived, he said he could, and set out, supported by a couple of men, one on each side. It was a slow progress, but the distance was not great, and he managed to get down all right, and then a surgeon dressed his wounds for him. "The bandolier and a tobacco-pipe in the pocket of your kharkee jacket have done you a good turn, my lad," he said; "for the body cut has gone right through them, and might have been fatal but for that resistance. It is pretty deep as it is, but you will be all right; and your other hurts are not serious, only sword cuts. But your little finger will not grow again, you know." The wounds might not be serious in a surgeon's estimation, but they were very painful, and to feel so weak and helpless was depressing to the spirits. The attack, however, had been successful, and the handful of sharp-shooters killed or effectually dispersed, for no more shots were fired at the convoy either that evening, during the night, or on the following morning, when it got under weigh again. So he had the pleasure of reflecting that his discomforts were not altogether incurred in vain. The most provoking thing he found was to be told that he was so very lucky only to be slashed all over with sword cuts, and not to have any bullet wounds. What he had got ached and smarted and throbbed to an extent calculated to try the patience of Job, and what was the use of endeavouring to persuade him that he was one of the favourites of fortune? He succeeded to the seat on a camel vacated by the ill-fated Binks, and every jolt hurt his side; the head and hand wounds were not much affected by the motion, but every violent jerk caused the other to gape and bleed, and the dressing had to be renewed at every halt where water was obtainable. But the comrade who rode alongside and congratulated him on not having any gun-shot wounds meant well, and he restrained his impatience. Only when Grady, whom he credited with more sense, went on the same tack, he said, "Thank you, Paddy; did you ever see a codfish crimped?" "No, sure, but I have seen a salmon." "Alive?" "In course; it's no use doing it after he's dead." "And did you congratulate him?"