“George!” Terry repeated. “You’re all right. We’ve found you. I’m Terry—I’m your old pard Terry. Swallow this water. There’s plenty more.”
The rest of the advance party had passed along, to administer first aid. The surgeon and some of the cavalry arrived.
Doctor Terry, the army surgeon, paused an instant, beside “Doctor” Terry the amateur, for a swift survey.
“Keep up the work, boy. He’ll be all right—he’s coming ’round.” He laid finger on George’s withered wrist, for the pulse. “Good! Pulse regular. Wet his wrists, occasionally. Who is he? Know him?”
“Yes, sir. He’s George Stanton—the other boy I was looking for.”
“Great Scott! That’s luck, sure.” And on passed the doctor.
George’s eyeballs rolled, his lids fluttered, and he groaned. He clutched for the canteen.
“Not yet, old fellow. I’m tending to you. Too much at once might make you sick.”
George stared up, vacantly; then he actually grinned, as his head swayed.
“Where you come from?” he asked, thickly.