Meantime the R. A. M. C. were busy with their work. With marvellous
rapidity and speed the train was unloaded of its pathetic freight,
the carrying cases into ambulances and the walking cases into cars and
wagons.
"Good-bye, Mac," called a voice as a car was driving off. It was Ewen
again. The wounded man spoke to the driver, who immediately pulled up
and swung over to the platform where Malcolm was standing.
"Oh, are you sure, Ewen, you are goin' to be all right? Man, you look
awful white."
"All right, Mac. You bet I will. It's only my arm," said Ewen, his
brave, bright words in pathetic contrast to his white face.
At this point Barry came rushing along.
"Why, Ewen! My poor fellow!" he cried, throwing his arm about the
wounded man's shoulder. "What is it?"
"My arm, sir," said the boy, adding some words in a low tone. "But I'm
all right," he said brightly. "You'll write my mother, sir, and tell
her? You'll know what to say."
"Surely I will. You'll be all right, old boy, God bless you! Good luck,
Ewen!"
Then leaning over the boy, he added in a low voice, "Remember you are
not all alone.
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