There was an awkward pause; the scouts did not know what to say. They wondered if their friend knew of the dreadful accusation. They felt that whatever they said or did would be wrong in that spotless, silent place, which was subject to rules and customs that they did not understand. Finally, with furtive glances at the nurses, they ventured to sit upon the edge of the cot. Then they felt easier and more at home.
Despite his weakness and pallor and the appalling look which his bandages gave him, there was something pleasant and wholesome in the victim’s look which the scouts had not seen before. Stricken and helpless though he was, he did not seem peculiar.
“I hurt my foot when I was a kid,” he said in a weak voice; “I stepped on a scythe. I couldn’t walk for two months.”
“Your left foot?” Roy asked.
“My left heel, the scar’s there now.”
“I know,” Roy said.
This was the first time that their queer friend had ever spoken of his early life. He smiled again, that pleasant, companionable smile.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“I–tell us about it,” Roy said.
“I stepped on a scythe in the hayfield. I thought I told Doctor Cawson.”