"So do we," chimed in Fitz and I. "We'll get the message through, and get you through, too."
The major flushed and stood up.
"If that's the way you talk," he snapped (he was the black-eyed, quick kind, you know), "then I order that this march be resumed. Pack the burro. I order it."
"You'd better ride."
"I'll walk."
Well, he was our leader. We should obey, as long as he seemed capable. He was awfully stubborn, the major was, when he had his back up. But we exchanged glances, and we must all have thought the same: that if he was taken seriously again soon, and was laid out, we would try to persuade him to let us manage for him. Fitz only said quietly:
"But if you have to quit, you'll quit, won't you, Tom? You won't keep going, just to spite yourself. Real appendicitis can't be fooled with."
"I'll quit," he answered.
We packed Sally again, and started on. The major seemed to want to hike at the regulation fast Scouts' pace, but we held him in the best that we could. Anyway, after we had gone three or four miles, he was beginning to pant and double over; his pain had come back.
"I think I'll have to rest a minute," he said; and he sat down. "Go ahead. I'll catch up. You'd better take the message, Fitz. Here."