"What is it, Tom?"
"It's a poor beggar of a scrub-cutter," Tom said hurriedly. "You know there are two men working up the Lake? Well, one has just been down to borrow a pony. He says his mate has broken his leg—the limb of a tree fell on him: and he's gone to bring him in here: we're the nearest people. I say, you studied first aid, didn't you?"
Aileen's heart turned to water.
"I did—but it's ages ago," she said. "And I have never had any practical experience. I would be afraid to touch him."
"Well, something ought to be done," Tom said, obviously disappointed. "Don't you remember anything about it?"
Aileen racked her memory.
"I could try, of course," she said slowly. "But I should be terrified of making it worse."
"I think any sort of bandaging is better than leaving it altogether," said Tom. "Let's try, at all events. It's the lower part of the leg that's broken."
"That's easier than the thigh, at all events. Come on. I'll leave you to chop out splints while I run for an old sheet for bandages." She ran towards the wood-heap, but paused on the way to pick up an old paling. "That will do, I think," she said, and knitted her brows, striving to think of long-forgotten instructions. "I can't be perfectly certain of the lengths, but if you will cut it here—and here—it should be about right."
She came back in a few moments, and together they tore and rolled bandages swiftly.