“What do you mean, crazy?”
“Oh, I mean even if he committed a murder if that’s the way you want to put it. He did, didn’t he?”
“Guess so.”
“Probably he was crazy when he did it.... Wasn’t he?”
“Guess so.”
At the hospital they were shown into the public ward at the door of which sat a policeman. That was to show that Blythe was under arrest. He was likely to escape! He lay upon his cot, his head swathed in bandages, his eyes hollow, his face white. He moved his eyes and smiled at the scouts without moving his head. It was the same old smile, simple and companionable, as if he were of their own age and one of them. All in a rush it took them back to old Camp Merritt.
“Doctor Cawson,” he said, just above a whisper. “Did he come too? He’d like to see me now, eh?”
“No, he didn’t come, boss,” said Warde; “but Pee-wee’s coming. I guess he stopped to do a good turn. Better?”
“Weak yet,” their friend said, reaching a white hand out, which each of the boys shook gently. “Your foot all right?” he asked Roy.
“Sure, only I can’t run yet,” Roy said. “I should worry. I’ve got to thank you, that’s one sure thing.”