Old Tilly was swaying again, and they forced him gently back. The little woman looked up startled.
"What is it, Jim? How did it happen?" she quavered.
Jim's face looked very sober. "I guess I better fetch the doctor," he said. "He hurt it on a nail, he says. I won't stop to harness up—Old Betty's used to bein' rode bareback."
He hurried away, followed by his wife. Jot was examining the torn wrist tenderly. Some new, untried strength seemed to spring into the brown, boyish face. It took on the lines of a man's.
"It's an artery, Kentie. I know, because the blood leaps up so when the handkerchief is off. It can't have been bleeding all night. I don't understand."
"It bled some last night," said Old Tilly, "but I stopped it. I guess I hit it someway just now against the table. It began again worse than ever. Cover it up, can't you? It's—all—right!"
"It isn't all right! Get me a little stick, quick, Kentie! No, that fork'll do. Hand it here. This bleeding's got to stop."
It seemed odd that it should be Jot—little, wild, scatter-brained Jot— who should take the lead in that calm, determined way. What had come to the boy? With pale face and set teeth he quietly bound the handkerchief tightly above the wrist, and, inserting the fork handle in the knot, twisted it about. The bleeding lessened—stopped.
"There! Now, if I keep a good grip on it—oh, I say, Kentie, wasn't I afraid I couldn't work it!" he said, breathing hard.
"I don't see how you did work it! I don't see how you ever thought of it, Jot Eddy!"