"A bit," said Garth briefly, with shut lips. "What is 'put it out,' Mother?"
"Oh, twisted a little," she told him. "A doctor will make it all right very quickly; only it will hurt you until we get to him." She looked at the set little face. "Garth dear—don't try not to cry, if it is very bad."
"I would be awful 'shamed if I howled," said Garth steadily. "And Dad would think I was a coward. Dad wouldn't howl."
"Dad is grown-up, and you are only seven," Aileen said. "He wouldn't expect you to be able to stand as much as he can. He will understand, if it's a bit too much for you, dear."
"I'd hate to howl," said Garth. "And howling wouldn't make it better."
"Let me see if this will ease it," she said, her own eyes full of tears. She folded a silk muffler into a sling, and raised his arm, very gently. Even under the soft mother-hands the child turned white.
"Oh, my little son, I wish I had it!" she said, under her breath.
"I'm ... jolly glad you haven't," panted Garth. His mother put him into a chair, watching him narrowly, lest he should be faint.
"Sure you're all right, sonnie?"
"I'm—pretty right," he said. "You'll come, Mother, won't you?"