very sore for Murray; but he did not forget Art Scannell, limp as a new-killed chicken, in his arms.
“Hands up, or I’ll shoot you, Roddy Duncan!”
Then Roddy’s answer came in a right and left that sent the boys to cover where the smoke bellied and the young flames were waking. Tod made just one remark.
“Be ahl things,” he said, “I’ll not be takin’ no penances from Father Denis this good while at ahl. Sure, they’re comin’ now tu the lot of us in a lump.”
Ormond heard Murray’s revolver crack in the new-come smarting dark; and he sprang with Murray to kneel on the thing that fought and bit and scratched, unseen.
Murray was sobbing in his throat.
“His shoulder!” he said. “Be careful, Ormond! I had to get him there. Roddy—it’s all right, old fellow.”
“Are they goin’ ter hurt me? Murray—Murray! you’re not goin’ ter let them hurt me?”
Ormond, reaching for the fallen rifle, saw Murray stoop and kiss the piteous stammering lips. And it was not smoke alone that smarted in his eyes as he came to his feet.
“Come on, you there!” he shouted. “Who’ll help carry the boy out of this?”
A hot blast poured over the track; with
