He knelt down beside Pete, placed a bough of thickly-clothed fir beneath the injured arm, and then closely bound all to the boy’s side.
“More harm is often done to a broken limb by letting it swing about,” he said, “than by the fracture itself. Now four of us together. Pass your hands beneath him, enlace your fingers, and when I give the word, all lift.”
This was done, Pete deposited upon the litter, and secured there by one of the ropes, after which he was carefully borne to his grandmother’s cottage, where the doctor was already waiting, and the old woman, tramping about stick in hand, looking as if prepared to attack her visitors for bringing down mischief upon the head of her grandson.
At last, as the boy was laid upon a mattress, she began to scold at Uncle Richard, but only to be brought up short by the doctor, who sternly bade her be silent, and not interrupt him while he examined Pete and set his arm.
This silenced the poor old woman, who stood back looking on, till the doctor had finished, and gone away to fetch medicine for his patient.
“Yes,” he said, “very bad, and will be worse, for in all probability he will have a sharp attack of fever, and be delirious when he recovers his speech. It is really wonderful that he is still alive.”
As these words were said, Tom looked back through the open cottage door, to see Pete lying motionless upon the mattress, and the dog sitting up beside him, looking down at the still white face.
“Looking at the dog, Tom?” said the Vicar.
“Yes, sir. What a faithful beast it is.”
“Splendid,” said the Vicar. “And yet I’ve seen Pete ill-use the poor brute, and I’m afraid it was half-starved; but it does not seem to influence the dog’s affection for him.”