He ran frantically to her, tore at his clothing, pulled off his green woollen shirt and taking off quite a nice fine white one under it, began to staunch the blood flow.
"Pony," he called to me over his shoulder, "Va donc—cherche ton maître." I knew what he meant, and for once I sprang like a deer myself and dashing down that hill landed in the midst of the picnic party and had Mr. Devering by the coat sleeve.
He looked down at my teeth biting the cloth as I endeavoured to pull him along.
"I'm coming," he said, and he gave a bound to the motor-boat, then came springing up the hill after me.
It seems that whenever anyone called him in a hurry he sprang for his black bag. So many people die in the backwoods for lack of first aid.
All the children wished to sweep up the hill. I could hear them crying out, but Mrs. Devering kept them back.
Her clear voice rose above the clamour. "Wait till we are called. Your father will let us know if we are wanted."
However, she could not keep Bolshy back. It would have taken a squad of soldiers to do that. Snorting and blowing, he rushed like a tornado up the hill beside me as I led the way. He was afraid something had happened to his soldier friend.
When he saw it was only the doe he fell back beside me and, throwing his arm over my neck, caressed me. I remembered that caress later when he was in disgrace and needed a friend himself. A pony never forgets a blow nor a kind word.
Well! that splendid man, Mr. Devering, who had the quick deft fingers and active brain that would have made him a first-class surgeon if he had remained in the city, was handling that beautiful doe's wounds as delicately as if she had been a human being.