“Gee!” he called to Gerald who was acting as the leader; “bear a little more to the right.”
The lad obeyed and a few minutes later Jack called:
“Haw! not so much—Gee a little—that’s it; keep it up.”
“I think it would be well if I cut a gad for you,” suggested Arthur from the rear; “you can whack him on the side you wish him to turn.”
“It would be a good idea,” replied Jack, “but I’ll give him a chance to save himself by doing what I order him to do. If he refuses, it will be at his peril.”
“I’ll do my best,” Gerald meekly called back.
All three showed a sturdy readiness that did them credit. It cannot be doubted that Jack Crandall was suffering keenly, but he would have collapsed before letting his companions know it, while they on their part gave no hint of the discouraging prospect before them. Each youth had to carry a dead weight of sixty pounds or more. That of itself was of small moment, for they could rest whenever they chose, but night was at hand and they were not only a good way from camp but could not tell when they would reach it. As has already been said, there was nothing to frighten them in the prospect of spending the night in the woods, during dog days, even if the climate in southern Maine is cool, at least after the sun goes down.
But their anxiety was for their chum with the broken leg. That ought to receive surgical attention with the least possible delay. Fortunately a skilful physician was within call from the clubhouse, but when could the latter be reached, and what would happen to Jack if they should go hopelessly astray?
It was this fear which caused the bearers distress. They would have discussed the important question, but could not well talk over the head of the sufferer, so they held their peace and strode on.
“You mustn’t tire yourselves out,” protested Jack from his couch; “you have traveled far enough for a good rest.”