"How about the ankle?" Tom reminded him. "What did you do to it?"
"I was on a bridge detail yesterday," answered Bert gloomily. "We were loading some pilings to be hauled up to a bridge, and I was on the wagon, placing them as they were shoved up to me. They were all greasy with mud, and I—well, I was thinking about some other things, and I stepped on a slippery hunk of mud. I went down; then one of the pilings rolled over when my foot struck it, and went on my ankle."
"Gee, that's hard luck!"
"I'd just as soon sprain a dozen ankles," answered Bert. "That isn't the hard luck."
"What do you mean?" asked Tom.
Bert looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I can't tell you. It's something we were planning to do, and"—he motioned towards his ankle—"here I am. Perhaps I'll tell you later."
The flap of the tent was pushed aside and the Captain entered. He stood for a moment looking regretfully at Bert. "I'm sorry," he said, "but the doctor says it can't be done. Too bad!"
Bert glared at his ankle. "Well, sir, if it can't be done, it just can't."
Tom watched the two men, wondering what thoughts were in their minds. What was this mysterious plan that was ending so badly?
The Captain spoke at last: "It's nice that you have your cousin here to keep you company while you're waiting for your ankle to heal."