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The 200th was in high glee to a man, which is including about twenty men who were wounded not so badly but that they could shout "Hurrah!" For there was a brush with the retreating French, who were driven from the strong camp they had formed, and the little patient had, to use Mrs Beane's words, "begun to pick up a bit."
"Shall I fetch some more?" said the boy. "Not yet. Tell me. Who are you? Is it a woman?" Dick laughed in his great joy at hearing the words. "No," he said: "it's only me." "You? Who are you?" "Dick. Mrs Corporal Beane's Dick." "Oh, my boy, my boy, you have saved my life," moaned the sufferer, catching the little fellow's hand and pressing it to his fevered lips. "But who are you?" said the boy.
His last words were, "Why don't you go? the Colonel you'll be too late." There was silence for a few minutes, all present watching the little messenger as he lay back insensible in Mrs Beane's arms.
It was some time before in his weak, half-starved state the poor boy could make them understand, for he had completely broken down: and it was not until he had swallowed a little biscuit soaked in wine, as he lay with his head in Mrs Beane's lap, that he at last told hysterically of how he had managed to crawl by the French outposts and reached his friends.
"The Colonel?" "Now-w-w! His horse. Colonel only went sliding down 'mong the stones, and ripped his jacket sleeve right up." "Oh, that's a blessing," said the woman. "You go to him when we camp, and say Mrs Corp'ral Beane's dooty and she's got a needle and silk ready, and may she mend his jacket." "All right, but you might tell us what's for dinner." "Wait and see.
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