We didn't hurry him, after breakfast. We knew that as soon as he could travel, he would. But we found that his feeling better wasn't lasting. Now that the burning of the ginger had worn off, he was as bad as ever. We were mighty sorry for him, as he turned and twisted, trying to find an easier position. A stomach-ache like that must have been is surely hard to stand.
Fitz got busy. Fitzpatrick is pretty good at doctoring. He wants to be a doctor, some day. And the Red Fox Scouts knew considerable about first-aids and simple Scouts' remedies.
"What kind of an ache is it, Tom?" queried Fitz. We were too bothered to call him "Major." "Sharp? Or steady?"
"It's a throbby ache. Keeps right at the job, though," grunted the major.
"Where?"
"Here." And the major pointed to the pit of his stomach, below the breast-bone. "It's a funny ache, too. I can't seem to strike any position that it likes."
"It isn't sour and burning, is it?" asked Red Fox Scout Ward.
"Uh uh. It's a green-apple ache, or as if I'd swallowed a corner of a brick."
We had to laugh. Still, that ache wasn't any laughing matter.
"Do you feel sick?"