Ferguson darted off to the fort and returned at once with the skin bag filled.
“Help me turn him over. There, that’s right; not too much,” and the captain loosened another button, then carefully inserted his hand beneath the coat. He felt in the region where the arrow had penetrated, and touching the shaft moved his fingers cautiously downward. Then a puzzled expression came over his face, and he muttered: “Something hard. I don’t quite understand. There isn’t any blood.”
He withdrew his hand, looked at it, then inserted it again and caught the shaft firmly. The dart turned to one side, but did not come out. The captain jumped to his feet.
“That arrow isn’t in Harvey’s body!” he exclaimed. “It’s fast in something that he has in the pocket of his flannel shirt. He’s fainted; got a knock on his head or something. Throw some water on his face!”
Ferguson did as directed, and Harvey immediately sat upright, then began pawing the air, as if warding off a blow, and tried to rise to his feet. Desisting suddenly from this effort he exclaimed: “What’s all the rumpus about? And—and—where are the Majeronas?”
Ferguson and Hope-Jones were too overjoyed to speak. They clapped the boy on the back, rubbed his arms, and asked him where he was hurt. For reply he put his hand to his head, and they found there another lump.
“I stumbled, I guess, and struck my head,” he said. “I can remember falling, and I saw a lot of stars and—but say, where are the savages?”
“Yes; and when you were falling, this was shot into you.” The captain pointed to the arrow, which was drooping, but still was held firmly.
Harvey looked at it in surprise, then reached under his coat. As he touched the shaft his cheeks turned a fiery red. He endeavored to withdraw the dart by pulling at it from the outside, but it would not come, so Ferguson bent down and helped him unfasten the remaining buttons of his coat and remove the garment. But even with the weight of that on the shaft, the arrow held firmly to the something that was in Harvey’s pocket, and he was at last compelled to cut the flannel. Then all saw that the point was embedded firmly in a pincushion, no larger than a plum, a pincushion well stuffed with cotton and which had barred the way to the boy’s heart.
“How on earth did you happen to be carrying such a thing in your pocket?” asked Hope-Jones.