"Well, I did. I read how it was done, up in the consultery. Father may laugh, but I'm going to be a doctor!"
Kent's face was full of new-born respect. He suddenly remembered that it was Jot who had set "Rover's broken leg and nursed the little sick calf that father set such store by.
"I guess father won't laugh." Kent said soberly. Jot was sitting on the edge of the lounge holding the fork in a firm grasp. Old Tilly opened his eyes and nodded approvingly.
"That's what I tried to do myself with the handkerchief—bind it tight. It wasn't very bad at first, but I jerked it or something. I didn't want you fellows' good time spoiled."
"That's just like you!" burst out Kent. "You never tell when you get hurt, for fear other folks'll be bothered."
The little woman crept back into the kitchen and went quietly about her work.
The doctor soon came, and in a brief time the artery was taken up and the hand deftly bandaged.
"Which of you fellows made that tourniquet with the fork?" the doctor asked brusquely.
Kent pointed proudly to Jot.
"Oh, it was you, was it? Well, you did a mighty good thing for your brother there. He'd have lost plenty of blood before I got here if you hadn't."