his name. It seemed a long way off, but when he looked around he saw Farnol Greer quite close to him. The thick-set black-headed fellow motioned for Madden to approach, and the American kicked himself and his float in that direction. A little later he saw that Malone was with Farnol, and that the two were supporting a third man.
“Lend us a 'and, 'ere, Madden,” called Malone; “our chap's knocked out.”
“Who is it? Oh, it's Caradoc!” Madden stared down into the still, upturned face with a dull emotionless feeling. He was too numb to feel or sympathize. “Is he dead?” he finally asked.
“Wounded, sir,” replied Greer.
At that moment, the Englishman moved slightly, opened his eyes. “We—stopped it, Madden.”
“Are you badly hurt?” inquired the American, becoming more nearly normal himself.
“Punch through my shoulder.”
“Were you hit in the explosion?”
“One of the Panther's machine guns—ricocheted, I think.”
