CHAPTER VIII.
_In Which I Once Again Sit Up and Behold the Sun._ "Which did I hit, Tom ?" were my first words as I came back to the glory of the world; but I didn't say them for a long time, and, from what Tom told me it was a wonder I ever said them at all.
"There he is, sar," said Tom, pointing to a long dark figure stretched out near by.

"I'm afraid he's not the man you were looking for." "Poor fellow!" I said; it was George, the engineer; "I'm sorry--but I saw the muzzles of their guns sticking out of the bush there.

It was they or me." "That no lie, sar, and, if it hadn't been for that sucking-fish's skin, you wouldn't be here now." "It didn't save me from a pretty good one on the head, Tom, did it ?" "No, sar, but that was just it--if it hadn't been for that knock on the head, pulling you down just that minute, that thar pock-marked fellow would have got you.

As it was, he grazed your cheek, and got one of his own men killed by mistake--the very fellow that hit you.

There he is--over there." "And who's that other, Tom ?" I asked, pointing to another dark figure a few yards away.
"That's the captain, sar." "The captain?
O I'm sorry for that.