“And he’s got a grey suit!” said Jo.
The lad—he seemed little more than a boy—opened his eyes slowly and looked out. At first his gaze saw only the ponies’ legs: then the eyes slowly travelled upwards until they rested on the two faces—and saw nothing but pity in them. He tried to speak, but only one word came clearly—“Water!”
“Oh, he’s thirsty, Jo!” Jean cried.
She was off her pony in a moment. There were old tins about the hut, relics of the contractors; not ideal vessels for a sick man’s use, but there was no choice. Jean fled down to the creek, where a little runnel of water yet trickled over mossy stones; she rinsed and filled the tin, and hurried back with it—to find Jo bending over the man in the grey suit.
“His head’s hurt, Jean, and I think his leg is too. I’ll help him—you hold the tin.”
Even with Jo’s help it was not easy to give him the drink he longed for; the tin was awkward, and they splashed a good deal of it over his face and neck. But they managed to get it to his craving lips at last, and he drank deeply. They laid him down again, and his eyes closed.
“He’s had an awful bump on the head, Jean—look!” Jo said. “And see—he’s been trying to get one boot off.” She touched his leg gingerly, and the lad winced.
“I believe we ought to get that boot off,” Jean said—and then started, for an unmistakable sound of acquiescence had come from their patient.
“We’ll do it,” Jean said, answering the sound. “I hope we shan’t hurt you much.”
That they hurt him was evident, for the ankle was cruelly swollen, and to draw the boot off was quite impossible. Neither twin had a knife, but it occurred to them that the patient might be better equipped, and they searched his pockets, with the result that an excellent knife came to light. With this they gradually cut the boot to pieces, and slit the sock. The ankle was puffed and swollen, and beginning to turn black.