The wounded boy was again lifted very carefully, and carried away to a bedroom. In a few moments the farmer came back, eager to hear how the scouts had found his son. He was astonished to find that their only clue, as he understood clues, was the seeing of the broken bicycle. It took him some time to grasp the methods by which the scouts had pieced together the evidence and followed up the wounded rider, and his thankfulness and gratitude were beyond expression.
'To think he was barely a field away from home, and couldn't move another step!' cried Mr. Hardy—for that was the farmer's name. 'And then you tracked him down in that clever fashion. Well, if you two are not a credit to Baden-Powell's Scouts, my name isn't George Hardy.'
'Your son is a scout too, I think,' said Dick. 'I saw he was wearing our uniform and badge.'
'Of course he is,' cried Mr. Hardy. 'He's fairly crazy about it—thinks of nothing else, he's so keen on it. There's a patrol over in the village yonder, and he's joined it. He's what they call a second-class scout at present, and he wants to become first-class. So off he set on his bike for a fifteen-mile ride, as it seems that's one of the things he's got to do.'
'Test 7,' grunted Chippy.
'Ah, very likely,' agreed Mr. Hardy. 'I don't know the numbers. Hallo! that's good. Here's the doctor.'
He sprang up, and took the medical man to the bedroom, while Joe came into the kitchen, wiping his face.
'Met the doctor on the road, so that's lucky,' said Joe, and then began to ask the scouts about the accident; for Fred was a great favourite, and all were anxious to know how ill had befallen him.
Dick and Chippy would now have resumed their interrupted march had they not been desirous of hearing the doctor's report on their brother scout's condition.
Twenty minutes passed before Mr. Hardy returned to the kitchen, and his face shone with joy.