“Now let’s have a look at it,” he said. Chick seated himself on a white stool under the beams of the light and the coach unwrapped the bandage. “Hm, you did get a nasty swat, didn’t you? That chap swung a mean cue! If it wasn’t so late I’d advise you to get Jake in to dress that and put a couple of stitches in it, but he’s probably fast asleep. What time is it, Hollins?”
“Twelve minutes past, sir,” replied Bert uneasily.
“Past—”
“Ten.”
“Later than I thought. Well, I guess I can strap that down with some plaster, Burton. I’ll give it a good washing first.” He swung open the door of a cabinet, selected a bottle from a shelf, ran some water in the bowl and went to work with absorbent cotton. “This may hurt a bit at first,” he warned.
“All right,” said Chick stoically. “It’s been hurting right along, sir.”
“There’ll be some swelling here in the morning, and some one may be curious. Possibly you had better say that you were calling on me this evening. No need to go into details, you know.”
“Folks might think you gave it to him, sir,” observed Bert in a weak attempt at humor.
“I guess not. I’ve felt rather murderous toward this chap at times this fall, Hollins, but until to-night I’ve managed to keep my hands off him.” The coach smiled as he spoke, but neither boy missed his meaning. “There you are, Burton. I’m not going to put a bandage on it. It may start to bleed again, but I don’t think it will. If it does, just sop it off with some cotton and try not to disturb the dressing.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chick arose and looked at himself in the glass. “Gee, I’m a sight! Look like a pirate or something, don’t I?”