"Mostly, but we had a stiff job."
"Don't talk about our job," said Doc Carson as he stooped, holding the lantern before Tom's blackened face and taking his wrist to feel the pulse.
Again there was silence as they all stood about and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough crept close to the prostrate form and gazed, fascinated, into that stolid, homely face.
And still no one spoke.
"It means the gold cross," someone whispered.
"Do you think the gold cross is good enough?" Garry asked, quietly.
"It's the best we have."
Then Roy, who was among them, kneeled down and put his arm out toward Tom.
"Don't touch my hand," said Tom, faintly. "It isn't that I don't want to shake hands with you," he added. "I wanted to do that when I met you—before supper. Only my hands feel funny—tingly, kind of—and they hurt.
"Any of my own patrol here?" he asked after a moment.