“Yes,” said the doctor quietly; “open a space here, you boys; let’s have some air.”
But the boy persisted. “Is—will——”
“I think so, it depends,” said the doctor.
“Do—do you know me?” asked the boy, foolishly addressing the unconscious form; “it’s Wig—just—if you’ll——”
Obedient to a new presence, as they had not been to the doctor, the group fell away to let an aggressive, striding young fellow pass through.
“You run along and help them get the stretcher for Doc, Wig,” said Tom Slade; “move back, you fellows.”
He sat down on the edge of the wicker couch on which they had laid the scout of no patrol while the scouts of all patrols lingered as near as they dared. The doctor, busy with the mangled arm, was preoccupied to the point of precluding questions. A scout came running with cotton and bandages. Two others brought the stretcher from Doc’s sanctum, and stood waiting.
Another boy, visibly pleased that his inspiration was serviceable, handed a new croquet stake to the doctor. He had brought it and stood waiting with it. He saw it roughly taken from him and twirled around in a bandage above the elbow of the stricken boy’s arm.
Tom, helpless in the face of professional routine and efficiency, sat quietly, and, there being nothing else for him to do, he stroked the forehead of the unconscious boy, and pushed up the strands of saturated hair, just as Wilfred had so often brushed the rebellious wavy locks up from his forehead.
Suddenly the eyes opened—roving, staring. And in their aimless moving they espied Tom.