"How's that wound on your toe, Desmond?" inquired Mr. Graham. He had asked the same question at least half a dozen times before, and the Patrol Leader had stoutly asserted that he hardly felt it, and that it was healing nicely.
"It's a bit painful, sir," admitted Desmond reluctantly. While he had been on the move he had practically forgotten all about it; but now, sprawling on the turf, he was aware of a persistent and increasing throb.
"Take your shoe and stocking off and let me see the injury," said the Scoutmaster.
Desmond did so. In spite of the fact that the ratbite had been carefully washed with disinfectant the flesh was badly inflamed.
Mr. Graham dressed the wound and insisted on the Patrol Leader keeping still for the rest of the evening.
"We'll see how it looks in the morning," he added. "If it's not considerably better you'll have to finish the trek by train."
It was jolly plucky on Desmond's part to have started with a toe in that condition; but he failed to grasp the other side of the case. By "carrying on" he had made the wound worse, with the result that he might be laid up for several days, and thus throw a heavy strain upon the rest of the crew of the Spindrift. If, however, he had admitted that his foot was painful, Mr. Graham would have sent him to Bude by train from Plymouth, and in all probability, by the time the others arrived to take over the yacht, Desmond would have been able to carry out his duties without physical discomfort.
The fire was kept up and given a plentiful supply of fuel when darkness set in. The four trekkers had already prepared their beds on a sloping expanse of turf under the lee of a rough stone wall. Making the beds was a simple matter, and consisted of scooping out a small hole to take the pressure of each sleeper's hip. Then the ground-sheets were spread proofed-side downwards, and the blankets arranged to fold over so that there were two thicknesses above and below the sleeper. Haversacks laid over a heap of moss provided a pillow, while the fold of the ground-sheet over everything made an effectual protection from the night dews.
"Comfortable, Desmond?" inquired the Scoutmaster.
"Yes, sir," came the muffled reply.