It was not so, of course. Were he
made of steel he must have felt the strain of those sixty hours, and he
almost yielded to it when he dismounted, and Fenshawe led him inside
the mess tent.
The older man invited him to be seated, and tell his adventures while
eating the meal which had been prepared for him and Stump as soon as
their camels were seen in the distance. But Dick, half unconsciously,
still clutched the broken rifle. There were blood stains on his
clothing, which was ripped in the most obvious way by bullets that had
either wounded him or actually grazed his skin. Fenshawe's keen old
eyes made a rapid inventory of these signs of strife, and he forgot, in
his anxiety, that Irene was present.
"Good heavens, man," he cried, "you have been in the wars. Did those
scoundrels attack you, then? Are you hurt?"
"No," said Dick, sinking into a chair, and trying to speak with his
customary nonchalance, "I am not injured--just a wee bit tired--that is
all."
Irene flew to his side. She took the soiled gun-barrels, from his
relaxing grip, and began to unfasten the collar hooks of his uniform.
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