Blood was flowing from a wound in his
chest, saturating his shirt, and running slowly to the earth
floor. There were two flesh wounds upon his head--one
above the right eye and the other extending entirely across the
left cheek from below the eye to the lobe of the ear--but
these he had received earlier in the fracas. From crown to heel
the man was a mass of blood. Through his crimson mask he
looked at the pile of bodies in the far end of the room, and a
broad grin cracked the dried blood about his mouth.
"Wot we done to dem Chinks was sure a plenty, kiddo,"
he remarked to Miss Harding, and then he came to his feet,
seemingly as strong as ever, shaking himself like a great bull.
"But I guess it's lucky youse butted in when you did, old
pot," he added, turning toward Theriere; "dey jest about had
me down fer de long count."
Barbara Harding was looking at the man in wide-eyed
amazement. A moment before she had been expecting him,
momentarily, to breathe his last--now he was standing before
her talking as unconcernedly as though he had not received a
scratch--he seemed totally unaware of his wounds. At least he
was entirely indifferent to them.
"You're pretty badly hurt, old man," said Theriere. "Do
you feel able to make the attempt to get to the jungle? The
Japs will be back in a moment.
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