"I see you have a William Corbett in your troop, Mr. Carroll," said he.
"Oh, yes, that's Goliath."
"He—he wasn't the kid who was knocked down by an auto?"
"Why, yes, he was. You know about that?"
Tom hesitated. The newspapers had not yet had time to publish the sensational accounts of Harlowe's tragic death on the mountain and the facts about this harrowing business had not been made public in camp.
"I thought the kid was killed," Tom said.
"Oh, no, that was just newspaper talk. It's a long way from being mortally injured in a newspaper to being killed, Mr. Slade."
"Y-es, I dare say you're right," said Tom, still astonished.
"Yes, the little codger has a weak heart," said Mr. Carroll. "When the machine struck him it knocked him down and he was picked up unconscious. Probably he looked dead as he lay there. I dare say that's what frightened the man in the machine. No, it was just his heart," he added. "A couple of the boys in my troop knew the family, mother did washing for them or something of that sort, and so we got in touch with the little codger and there was our good turn all cut out for us.
"You know, Slade, we have a kind of an institution—troop good turn. Ever hear of anything like that? So we brought him along. He's a kind of a scout in the chrysalis stage. He doesn't even know what happened to him. A good part of his life has been spent in hospitals; he'll pick up though. I think the newspaper reporters did more harm than the autoist. Do you know, Slade, I think the man may have just got panicky, like some of the soldiers in the war."