A familiar voice hailed Bill, and looking around, he saw Mr. Davis behind him.
“Well, that was a very pretty tumble you and the sergeant took a while ago,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“It kind of woke me up,” said Bill, “but our friend here says he feels like the break-up of a heavy winter.”
“Square in the belly,” complained the policeman. He began to repeat the story of his bruised backbone, when Mr. Davis cut in on him.
“Goodness, Bolton, you’re covered with blood!”
“I am? Oh, it’s my hands—” Bill held out his torn palms.
Mr. Davis winced. “Great Scott! No wonder you passed out. How you ever managed to hold on—But here we stand talking. Come on over to the police car. They’ve got a first aid kit—we don’t want to let you in for blood poisoning.”
With the bleating sergeant bringing up the rear, he hurried Bill over the field to the car, where he pulled out a large tin case and laid it on the grass. Then he went to work on Bill’s hands with the deftness of a surgeon.
“Now then,” he said after a while, “that will hold you till you’re home and can get a doctor. This is only a makeshift.”
Bill stared at his bandaged hands. “Seems to me, Mr. Davis, you’ve made a mighty neat job of it. Looks like a full-fledged doctor’s work.”