"Jamie, Jamie, what is the matter?" she cried. "Did you fall? Are you hurt?"
There was no answer.
"What is it, old fellow? ARE you hurt?" demanded Jimmy.
Still there was no answer. Then, suddenly, Jamie pulled himself half upright and turned. They saw his face then, and fell back, shocked and amazed.
"Hurt? Am I hurt?" he choked huskily, flinging out both his hands. "Don't you suppose it hurts to see a thing like that and not be able to do anything? To be tied, helpless, to a pair of sticks? I tell you there's no hurt in all the world to equal it!"
"But—but—Jamie," faltered Pollyanna.
"Don't!" interrupted the cripple, almost harshly. He had struggled to his feet now. "Don't say—anything. I didn't mean to make a scene—like this," he finished brokenly, as he turned and swung back along the narrow path that led to the camp.
For a minute, as if transfixed, the two behind him watched him go.
"Well, by—Jove!" breathed Jimmy, then, in a voice that shook a little, "That was—tough on him!"
"And I didn't think, and PRAISED you, right before him," half-sobbed Pollyanna. "And his hands—did you see them? They were—BLEEDING where the nails had cut right into the flesh," she finished, as she turned and stumbled blindly up the path.