Adelaide sprang to her feet and clambered down the ranks of seats. I followed. I have no clear idea of how we reached the ground, but we hurried on together, the boys making way for us as we came. They had an instinctive feeling that this handsome, imperious girl, with the white face, had a right to pass. A panting boy, lying with his face to the ground, looked up and asked, “What’s up?”
“They can’t bring Armstrong to,” replied the trainer. “Looks like he is going to die.”
“Glad of it,” retorted the other, turning his face to the sod again. It was Ricos, deserted by every one, unnoticed in his defeat. But through his humiliation and resentment there presently shot a pang of conscience. “What if Jim should die? Would I not be a murderer?” and with pallid face he staggered to his feet and tottered after us. The crowd around Jim opened for us. There he lay with his head on Stacey’s lap. A portly surgeon, with a river of watch-chain flowing around his vest, knelt at Jim’s side examining the wound below his knee. Colonel Grey, the principal of the school, a retired army officer, and a tall soldierly man, bent his white head over the doctor and inquired into Jim’s condition.
“The wound is not a serious one, only a minor artery cut, which I have just tied. The only question is whether the little fellow has lost too much blood.”
“Oh, my darling brother!” Adelaide cried.
“For Heaven’s sake, control yourself, my dear Miss Armstrong!” exclaimed Colonel Grey. He realized the importance of not exciting Jim, and he loved the boy tenderly. He offered his arm to Adelaide now, while four of the cadets lifted Jim and bore him very gently to the piazza of the pavilion. “To think,” said the Colonel, “that I was just congratulating myself on the number of points he was winning for the school. Why, I would rather the school had not gained a single point than have had this happen.”
“Darn the games,” muttered Stacey, switching his bath-robe about savagely.
When we reached the piazza and Jim had been stretched on a bench, his eyes opened feebly. He recognized Adelaide fanning him and smiled.
“They are calling the mile run,” said the trainer. “You entered for that, Mr. Fitz Simmons. They say you are sure of winning the race, and if you do you’ll gain the cup for the school.”
“Confound the race!” ejaculated Stacey. “Do you suppose I am going to leave Jim in this condition?”