"How was I to stop him?" retorted the man. "I gave the alarm."

"And let the prisoner escape. It was your duty to have fired at him,"

roared the sergeant. "I want to know what the officers are going to say."

"Why didn't you fire at him?" cried Wyatt angrily.

"Beg pardon, sir," replied the sentry, drawing himself up as he recognised his officer. "I'm pretty good at firing-practice with carbine and pistol."

"It doesn't seem like it, sir," said Wyatt sharply.

"I should have brought him down, sir," said the man apologetically.

"Well, that's what you were placed here for.--That you, Hulton?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"Hanson broken out and escaped."

The captain uttered an angry e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, gave orders, and men with lanterns were sent in pursuit, divided into three parties, with one of which were Wyatt and d.i.c.k.

"He's gone," said the former angrily. "Hiding in the native quarter somewhere--the scamp! It's like hunting for a needle in a bottle of hay."

"Hi! Here: this way, lads," cried the sergeant in front with a lantern, by whose light d.i.c.k indistinctly caught sight of a figure in shirt and trousers rising from below in the ditch.

Then there was a scrimmage, joined in by three or four men, and the man of whom they were in search was thrown and handcuffed, a pair being conveniently handy in the sergeant's pocket.

"This is a slice of good luck," said Wyatt as soon as the prisoner was secured. "Now then, let the fellow rise, and take him back.--Get up, sir."

"Can't," growled the prisoner savagely.

"Lift him to his feet," cried the sergeant. The prisoner was dragged up, and it was noticed that he stood on one leg only.

"Here, he has been hurt," cried d.i.c.k. "Look at that leg.--What's the matter, Hanson?"

"Sprained," said the man surlily.

"How did you do that?"

"Jumping down into the ditch. You wouldn't have caught me if it hadn't been for the sprain."

"He's only shamming, sir," said the sergeant. "He can walk."

"I think not," said d.i.c.k quietly.--"You are hurt, Hanson?"

"Oh, yes, sir," said the man bitterly, "I'm hurt. Just my luck."

"Hold the lantern lower," said d.i.c.k, going down on one knee.

"Take care, sir; he'll kick you," cried the sergeant.

"Yah!" roared the prisoner, turning to the speaker savagely.

"He won't kick," said d.i.c.k coolly, bending over to take the man's ankle between his hands after turning up the trouser-leg.

"Well?" said Wyatt quickly.

"Bad sprain, and swelling up already," said d.i.c.k quietly.

"Fetch the ambulance," said Captain Hulton, who had come up on seeing the lights stationary.

"Oh, I can hop back to the cells, Captain," said the prisoner in a voice full of bravado.

"Silence, sir!"

"It strikes me, d.i.c.k," whispered Wyatt, "that he'll have to hop somewhere else before he has done."

"Carry him back to the cell," said Hulton sternly.

A couple of the guard stepped to the injured man's side.

"All right, boys," he said in a low tone. "I've got no more fight in me; I give in."

He threw his arms over the men's shoulders, and somewhat after the fashion of giving a ride in a sedan or "dandy-chair," as children call it, the prisoner was raised from the ground and borne back to his place of imprisonment.

"He ought to have a doctor directly," said d.i.c.k as he and Wyatt followed some little distance behind the party bearing the prisoner.

"Who says so?" said Wyatt.

"I do."

"And what do you know about it, chicken?"

"I know that he has fallen heavily upon his foot and given the ankle a bad wrench. It's about double its proper size now, and requires immediate treatment."

"Don't think so. It has done him good. Tamed him a bit."

"But you don't want the man to be lame?"

"Never said I did, dear boy. But what should you do?"

"Call in the doctor."

"But if there were no doctor?"

"Apply bandages and lotion at once."

"Humph! Suppose a chap had a leg taken off by a twelve-pound shot and there was no doctor, what should you do then?"