Phoebe, who all this time had been watching Richard with a sort of rapt expression, was startled out of her dream. She blushed and looked down at the floor. The girls had never seen her so shy.
“This is Mr. Hook, Phoebe,” continued Miss Campbell. “I think we ought all to offer him our united thanks for his courage.”
“I do thank you, sir, with all my heart,” said Phoebe fervently, timidly offering her hand.
Richard stretched out his left hand.
“I—I ask your pardon for giving you my left hand,” he said, and for the first time they noticed that his right arm was hanging limply at his side.
“Oh, Rich—Oh, Mr. Hook,” cried Billie, as red as a beet. “What have I done—I shot you—Oh, dear, I am so sorry!”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Billie. It’s just a coat sleeve wound. The bullet cut through the cloth and scratched my arm. It’s lodged there in the wall now, I suppose, as a memento of your nerve.”
“Why, boy, your sleeve is soaked in blood,” exclaimed Miss Campbell. “And you’re as white as a ghost. Sit down here quick. Alberdina, a basin of water. Billie, some bandages. Hurry, all of you. Why are you standing around like a lot of wooden images?”
Phoebe was too inexperienced to join in the general rush for bandages, peroxide of hydrogen, absorbent cotton and witch hazel: all the first-aid-to-the-injured the camp afforded. She stood at the foot of the couch and watched Richard Hook with large innocent eyes. His own eyes, very dark gray, wide apart and extremely intelligent, returned her gaze with a kind of amused admiration.
In the meanwhile, Miss Helen Campbell snipped up his shirt sleeve with a pair of small scissors and Billie, overwhelmed with contrition, stood ready to bathe the wound, which was more bloody than serious.