The eyes closed.
Then an interval of silence during which the doctor worked steadily, unheedful of the gaping throng standing at a respectful distance. Tom sat silently, watching him.
“He’s pretty weak,” the doctor said. “I don’t see how he did it; he’s lost a lot of blood. Anybody connected with him up here? Just hold that loose end—that’s right.”
“Only myself,” Tom said, his hope sinking at the ominous question. “I found him, he’s mine. No, none of his people are up here. He has a mother and sister. Had I better send for them?”
“I think it would be best,” said the doctor quietly.
Tom arose, his heart sinking. He thought of Wilfred, a lone figure in the camp, wandering about, unheeded, and now perhaps dying far from his own people. He blamed himself that he had brought Wilfred to camp.
“Shall I say—shall I just tell them to come up?”
“Hmm,” said the doctor, still busy, “that’s right, yes. He’s pretty weak from the loss of blood.”
“Could I be of any use in any way?” Tom asked, hesitatingly.
“You mean you want to give your own blood?” the doctor asked bluntly.