Wombo is hurt too.
The wounds must be washed and dressed....

Look at the poor creatures.' Mrs Hensor contemptuously surveyed Wombo and his erring partner.
'Serve them right.

He's stolen her from her husband and the Blacks have given them what for.

They don't need any fussing over, these niggers.
They are used to being knocked about.' Lady Bridget's eyes blazed, but her tone was icy.
'I suppose you understand that I've given you my orders to attend to a wounded fellow-creature.' 'Well, I don't call Blacks fellow-creatures.

Do you suppose we should not all be having spears thrown at us if the niggers weren't afraid of Mr McKeith's gun ?' 'You have my orders,' repeated Lady Bridget sharply, her wrath at white heat.
'I take no orders from anybody but the Boss, and his orders were that if Wombo brought the gin here, they'd got to be driven off,' retorted Mrs Hensor.
'They will not be driven off.