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.

"An' there's no telling yet, of course, if it's slight or serious. But
begad be must have had a nasty tumble. Devilish lucky to get off with
his life,--that's a fact. What's the nearest bungalow we can get him