After one moment of blank funk White drew out his pocket
handkerchief, held it arm high by way of a white flag, and ran out
from the piazza of the hotel.
17
"Are you hit?" cried White dropping to his knees and making himself
as compact as possible. "Benham!"
Benham, after a moment of perplexed thought answered in a strange
voice, a whisper into which a whistling note had been mixed.
"It was stupid of me to come out here. Not my quarrel. Faults on
both sides. And now I can't get up. I will sit here a moment and
pull myself together. Perhaps I'm--I must be shot. But it seemed
to come--inside me. . . . If I should be hurt. Am I hurt? . . .
Will you see to that book of mine, White? It's odd. A kind of
faintness. . . . What?"
"I will see after your book," said White and glanced at his hand
because it felt wet, and was astonished to discover it bright red.
He forgot about himself then, and the fresh flight of bullets down
the street.
The immediate effect of this blood was that he said something more
about the book, a promise, a definite promise.
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