“You just help me carry him inside, you horrid, hateful bully,” she commanded young Reynolds. “Take his feet—there!”
The national instinct prompted obedience, and Cecil was safely deposited on the lower step of the side entrance, Reynolds retiring in haste before the concentrated fury in Lee’s eyes and teeth and nails. She gathered Cecil into her bosom, and wept bitterly.
“I say!” murmured the wounded hero. “Don’t cry! I’m all right. I’ve got a beastly headache, that’s all.”
“Those loathsome boys!” sobbed Lee.
“Well, they know I can fight, if I didn’t beat.” But his voice was thick, and there was no pride about him anywhere.
Lee’s tears finished, and were succeeded by curiosity.
“What did you fight about?” she asked, drying her eyes on her ensanguined pinafore.
“They all said the United States licked England twice, and I said it didn’t. They said I didn’t know history, and I—well, I told them they were liars, and that Reynolds offered to fight for the crowd, and we fought.”
“Don’t get excited,” said Lee soothingly. “Do you think you can walk up to your room? You’ll feel better if you lie down, and I can do a lot of things for you.”
He got to his feet, climbed wearily to his room, and flung himself on the bed. Lee was in her element. She sponged him off, and fetched ice, and bound up his damaged face. She felt his nose to see if it was broken. It was swelling rapidly, and he shrieked as she prodded it. Lee wished that she did not feel a disposition to laugh, but her hero certainly looked funny. When she had bound two compresses about his face—his upper lip was also cut—she closed the inside blinds, and sat down beside the bed. It was her duty to go to her mother, but she was loath to leave her comrade.