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"It was pretty deep, then, for your sleeve's soaked. Here, let me tie my handkerchief round it." "No, no," said Ralph; "they'll overtake us. Let's make a run for it now." "Shall we?" said Mark unwillingly. "Yes, we must. I can't use my arm any more." "Well, I don't think I can run much farther." "You must," cried Ralph, sharply as he looked over his shoulder. "We're not fit to fight."
"Where's he hurt?" asked Weary, in the repressed tone which only tragedy can bring into a man's voice, and knelt beside Big Medicine. "I dunno through the lungs, I guess; my sleeve's gitting soppy right under his shoulder." Big Medicine did not bellow; his voice was as quiet as Weary's. Weary looked up briefly at the circle of staring faces. "Pink, you pile onto Glory and go wire for a doctor.
"When I see a man show courage like that, I just feel as if as if I'd like to squeeze him." Percival's left hand shot out and caught hers to his lips. "Why, Mr. Hascombe!" she cried "What's the matter with your arm? No, I mean the other one." "A mere scratch." "But your sleeve's cut, and the handkerchief is all blood-stained. Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" "I assure you it is nothing.
Well, he insisted on opening the brandy that day and passing it round. We had cups made of leaves and we drank to his sleeve, although the stuff was villainous. He had put the sleeve on, and it looked rather inadequate. "Here's fun," he said joyously. "If my English tailor could see this sleeve he'd die of envy. A sleeve's not all of a coat, but what's a coat without a sleeve?
He's got something up his sleeve and a Chink's sleeve's big enough to hold a good-sized crime," he finished, with a grim essay of humor. "Are these mere suspicions on your part, or do you know that something's up?" "Most things happen on Naapu before there's been any time for suspicion," he rejoined, squinting at his pipe, which had stopped drawing.
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