“Now, I wonder if that’s broken!” Jo pondered. “They taught us in first-aid to waggle it, didn’t they?”
She “waggled” it, very badly afraid of damaging it further, and prodded it here and there, while its owner lay motionless, with set lips.
“I don’t believe it’s broken, Jean. There’s no sign of grating or anything. I fancy it’s just a very bad sprain.” She bathed it, using the torn sock as a sponge, and finally as a cold-water bandage, while Jean bathed his head with her handkerchief. It seemed to give him relief; something of the pain died out of his face.
“Whatever are we going to do with him?” Jo queried, when they had finished.
“We’ll have to tell Father,” Jean answered. “And if we do, Father will have to tell the police.”
There came from the half-conscious lad a sharp, protesting sound.
“It’s awful,” Jo said. “I simply couldn’t bear to let the police have him! He—he looks so young, and not really wicked. But Father is different; he’d be sterner. Besides, he’d get into bad trouble himself if he didn’t give him up.”
“But we can’t leave him here. He’s too ill.”
The patient made a great effort to speak.
“I’m all right. Don’t tell——” His voice became indistinct, but they caught the muttered word, “police.” The twins looked at each other.