The most collected was Oscar Dalrymple. He always was collected; his nature was essentially cool and calm. Holding up Mr. Dalrymple's head and shoulders, he strove to ascertain where the injury lay. Though very pale, and lying with closed eyes, Mr. Dalrymple had not fainted.
"Oh, father," cried Robert, as he throw himself on his knees beside him in a passion of grief, "I did not do it purposely—I don't know how it happened."
"Purposely—no, my boy," answered his father, in a kind tone, as he opened his eyes. "Cheer up, Charley." For, in fond moments, and at other odd times, they would call the boy by his second name, Charles. Robert often clashed with his father's.
"I do not believe there's much harm done," said the sufferer. "I think the damage is in my left leg."
Mr. Dalrymple was right. The charge had entered the calf of the leg. Oscar cut the leg of the trouser round at the knee with a penknife, unbuttoned the short gaiter, and drew them off, and the boot. The blood was running freely. As a matter of course, not a soul knew what ought to be done, whether anything or nothing, all being profoundly ignorant of the simple principles of surgery, but they stumbled to the conclusion that tying it up might stop the blood.
"Not that handkerchief," interposed Mr. Cleveland, as Oscar was about to apply Mr. Dalrymple's own, a red silk one. "Take mine: it is white, and linen. The first thing will be to get him home."
"The first thing must be to get a doctor," said Oscar.
"Of course. But we can move him home while the doctor is coming."
"My house is close at hand," said Farmer Lee. "Better move him there for the present."
"No; get me home," spoke up Mr. Dalrymple.