“You know that runnin’ backward stuff?” Steve began. “I’m sorry that I razzed you, kid. Don’t let anybody ever ride you again. Say, it’s hot, ain’t it? I wish I had some water!”
Lefty reached for the canteen and held it up to the boy’s mouth but it was empty.
“There’s a pool over behind them trees,” Steve said, “I can hear it tricklin’ sometimes. Maybe the water ain’t bad there.”
Lefty picked up his helmet and raised himself to his feet. In a moment, he had disappeared behind the bushes, leaving the wounded man a helpless victim once more to the biting ants that again began to crawl over his hands and face.
The mechanic found the pool, but like the other small outlets of water about them, this one too was stagnant with filth and slime.
Without hesitation, he waded into the mud, bending over and looking at the bad water, then brushing away the scum from the top and filling his helmet to the brim.
Once more beside his friend, Phelps proceeded to bathe the boy’s head in the lukewarm water as Graham opened his eyes and pleaded for a drink.
“You can’t have that stuff, Steve; it’s filthy.”
“I don’t care,” the boy begged. “Please gimme some!”
Feebly, the wounded man forced Lefty to relent and allow him to sip the stagnant liquid from the helmet.