"Let us carry him. I'll take him about the hips—you take his shoulders."
Although he had perforce taken for granted her ability, Murray was a little surprised at the way in which the girl carried her share of the burden—lightly and with ease. Strength in that fragility, he thought!
When they had put the man in one of the bunks, Claire spoke quietly.
"If you'll wait here, please, I'll get some stuff for bandages."
He nodded, and sat down beside the bunk. He watched the face of Tom Lee curiously, and to his inward astonishment found himself reckoning it a very fine face. Here was not one of hybrid orientals who seeks notoriety by taking unto himself a white wife; in repose, the man's face was singularly massive, eloquent of self-repression, instinct with a firm command. Not a handsome face in any sense, but most striking. A man, thought Murray, who lived a stern inner life—a man who had mastered the secret of reserve.
"Here," said the girl's voice. Murray turned to her. She was extending several strips of silk and one of linen; her clear eyes spoke of anxious solicitude, but were unembarrassed.
"He has not recovered yet?"
"Thank you. These are excellent, Miss Lee! I'll have him fixed up in no time. No, I don't want him to recover just yet."
He was aware that she had again left the shack, but now he was bending over the man's figure, intent upon his task, bandaging the injured knee firmly and deftly. When at length he finished and sat back, he found that the liquid black eyes of Tom Lee were open and were calmly regarding him.
"Broken?" demanded the yellow man laconically.