Tom craned his neck to see and spoke to those nearest him, but they only answered perfunctorily or ignored him altogether. He moved around to where Roy stood, and Roy, without looking at him, pressed farther into the crowd.
"That's he," a boy near him whispered to his neighbor; "stood on the end of the board, watching. I didn't think we had any cowards here."
In every face and most of all in the faces of his own troop Tom saw contempt plainly written. He could not go away from them, for that might excite fresh comment; so he remained, trying to disregard the significant glances and swallowing hard to keep down the lump which kept rising in his throat.
Soon the doctor came, relieving Doc Carson of the Ravens, and the half-drowned boy was taken to his cabin.
"He—he's all right, isn't he?" Tom asked of the doctor.
"Yes," said the doctor, briefly. "He's one of your own patrol, isn't he?"
"Yes—sir."
The doctor looked at him for a moment and then turned away.
"Hello, old man," said Garry, as he passed him, hurrying to the pavilion. "Cold feet, eh? Guess you got a little rattled. Never mind."
The words stabbed Tom like a knife, but at least they were friendly and showed that Garry did not entirely condemn him.