“First, I want to look at that leg of yours, Giraffe,” said the scoutmaster.
“Aw! guess I’ll manage all right,” replied the other, his pride revolting at such a thing as showing the white feather.
“All the same, it ought to be looked after,” persisted Thad. “We can’t afford to take any chances of your being lamed. A stiff leg is a constant bother. And there’s no need of it when I’ve got liniment and salve and linen in my haversack, for just such uses. Here, roll up the leg of your trousers and let Doc Thad take a look. No nonsense, now, Giraffe. It’s orders.”
So, protesting still that it “didn’t amount to a row of pins,” Giraffe nevertheless obeyed the injunction of the patrol leader.
“There, it is quite an ugly wound, and bleeding too,” declared Thad. “And you might have had a heap of trouble with that same hurt, Giraffe, if you didn’t let me put some salve on. It’s an open cut and the liniment would bite too much. Besides this healing salve is better.”
And so Thad soon had a nice bandage fastened snugly about the hurt. Giraffe frankly admitted that it did feel soothed by the application, though he still had to limp more or less when he walked, naturally favoring the lame leg.
“Now we can go ahead again, and find old Bumpus,” Step Hen remarked, after the operation had been successfully finished.
“That’s the worst of it all,” said Allan, with a disconsolate shrug of his shoulders, and making a wry face at the same time.
“Worst of what?” demanded Step Hen. “Ain’t we going to pick up the trail at the place we lost it, or back where the old cat hangs?”
“There isn’t any trail!” Allan replied.