“Hurt my leg,” he said at length. “I managed to catch the old horse, because he put his foot through the bridle, and hobbled himself; and I got on by a log and rode home. Didn’t jump any more fences though. And when I got home I couldn’t stand on that leg. Had to be lifted off. Makes you feel an ass, doesn’t it?”
The question was for the now visible Tommy, but Jim did not wait for an answer.
“Then I had to lie still for days,” he said. “My word, I did hate it! I feel sorry for any chap with a sick leg. It’s so jolly hard to keep still when you don’t feel like it.”
Something in the low, deep voice helped the little lad in the cot, with sore mind and body. This very large brown person understood exceedingly well.
“But legs get better,” said Jim. “After a while you forget all about them, and play cricket again, and go in for no end of larks.”
He shifted his position, still fingering the watch.
“The man that sold me this said it would go,” he said. “It’s got works all right, and I know it can tick, because he made it. But I’m blessed if I can get the hang of it!” For the first time he looked squarely at Tommy. “I suppose you couldn’t give me a hand with it?” he asked, casually. He held out the watch.
A small finger advanced about an inch, and the watch came nearer until it was within touching distance.
“Thanks, awfully,” Jim said. “I ought to be able to get it going now.” He fumbled with the stem Tommy had indicated. “No—I can’t! I don’t know what’s the matter with the silly thing.”
“Me!” said Tommy, with a great effort. It was hard to speak; but harder to lie silent, knowing quite well that you could extricate this other fellow from his difficulties. And so well Tommy knew where that watch ought to be wound.