Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him with ostentatious anxiety,
while Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried away. " 'Ope you ain't 'urt
badly, Sir," said Slane. The Major had fainted, and there was an ugly, ragged
hole through the top of his arm. Slane knelt down and murmured. "S'elp me, I
believe 'e's dead. Well, if that ain't my blooming luck all over!"
But the Major was destined to lead his Battery afield for many a long day with
unshaken nerve. He was removed, and nursed and petted into convalescence,
while the Battery discussed the wisdom of capturing Simmons, and blowing him
from a gun. They idolized their Major, and his reappearance on parade brought
about a scene nowhere provided for in the Army Regulations.
Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners would have
made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight. Even the Colonel of his
own regiment complimented him upon his coolness, and the local paper called
him a hero. These things did not puff him up. When the Major offered him money
and thanks, the virtuous Corporal took the one and put aside the other. But he
had a request to make and prefaced it with many a "Beg y'pardon, Sir." Could
the Major see his way to letting the Slane-M'Kenna wedding be adorned by the
presence of four Battery horses to pull a hired barouche? The Major could, and
so could the Battery.
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