After applying more brandy to the lips and temples without result, he removed his Norfolk coat--still warm and dry within--and with the help of two fir boughs contrived to shelter Lenox's head and chest from the chilling downpour. Then he set to work on the broken arm. The same fir,--springing sturdily from a cleft in the rock below,--provided a splint; and with two handkerchiefs (he had wrung the last drop of rain-diluted brandy from his own) he tied the injured limb skilfully and securely into place. That done, there remained nothing but to wait:--the hardest task that can be assigned to a man of action. And to wait sitting was beyond him. Steady pacing in the cramped space available helped to deaden thought and promote warmth,--for by now his soaked shirt-sleeves clung to his arms. He kept it up doggedly till approaching footsteps brought his damp vigil to an end; and Colonel Mayhew stepped on to the ledge. "Alive?" he asked, glancing at the prostrate figure, and Desmond nodded. "Can't get him round, though. Concussion, I'm afraid. A nasty wound on his head, and one arm fractured. But for that strip of undergrowth, he would have been done for. Hope to God that lazy beggar Garth hurried up after O'Malley. We won't wait here, though.--Come on, _coolie-log_." [Transcriber's note: The "o" in "_log_" is the Unicode "o-macron", U+014D.] Colonel Mayhew going forward to lend a hand, glanced over the precipitous drop on his right, and turned hastily away again. That which had been Shaitan was visible below; and it was not pleasant to look at. "Lenox'll be cut up about that," he muttered as they lifted him cautiously on to the reeking strip of blanket. It was a dreary journey up that corkscrew footpath, inch-deep in running water, that led to the ordinary levels of life. Desmond kept his post by Lenox's head and shoulders, sheltering him still with the discarded coat, and clinging to the track's edge with supple, stockinged feet. But there was no preventing jars and jolts arising from broken ground, and the difficulty of carrying a litter at an almost impossible angle. Half-way up they caught sight of Dr O'Malley,--a Pickwickian figure of a man, booted and spurred,--skipping, stumbling, and slithering towards them in a fashion ludicrous enough to bring a flicker of mirth into Desmond's eyes. They drew up when, at length, he bore down upon them with a rush of expletives by way of sympathy: for he was good-hearted and a ready man of his tongue, if not a brilliant unit of his profession. His rapid examination of Lenox ended in praise of Desmond's amateur bit of surgery, and a confirmation of his verdict--concussion of the brain.