The vicar could have chosen no better words. Martin’s heart throbbed with pride. At last the bandages were secured and the tattered sleeve turned down. All this consumed nearly half an hour, and then Martin remembered a forgotten duty.
“What time is it?” he said anxiously.
“A quarter past five.”
“Oh, bother!” he murmured. “I’ll get into another row. I have missed my Bible lesson.”
“Your Bible lesson?”
“Yes, sir. My father makes me read a portion of Scripture every day.”
The vicar passed unnoticed the boy’s unconsciously resentful tone. He sighed, but straightway resumed his wonted cheeriness.
“There will be no row to-day, Martin,” he promised. “We shall escort you home in triumphal procession. We leave the things here for my man, who will bring a pony and cart in a few minutes. Now, you two, tie the hind legs of that beast with a piece of string and carry it on the stick. The cat is Martin’s spolia opima. Here, Elsie, guide your warrior’s faltering footsteps down the glen.”
They all laughed, but by the time they reached the White House the boy was ready to drop, for he had lost a quantity of blood, and the torment of the saline solution was becoming intolerable.
John Bolland, after waiting with growing impatience long after the appointed time, closed the Bible with a bang and went downstairs.