“Oh, Tom––Mr. Blake!” she cried. “What has happened?”
“Scalp wound––faint––blood loss,” Blake panted in terse answer.
“He is wounded? O-o-oh!” She ran up and looked fearfully at the bloodsoaked bandages across Ashton’s hanging head.
Blake staggered on down the slope without pausing. Genevieve had started to meet him. But at her husband’s panting explanation, she laid the baby on the nearest soft spot of earth and darted to the kit-chest. She was opening a “first aid” box when Blake crashed through the bushes and sank down with his burden under the first tree. 216
Genevieve hastened towards the men, calling to her companion: “Water, Chuckie––that pail by the fireplace.”
The girl flew to fetch a bucket of water from the pool.
Blake was peering anxiously down into Ashton’s white face. “Didn’t––know––but––that––” he panted.
“No,” reassured his wife. “He will soon be all right.”
She drew the unconscious man flat on his back and held a bottle of ammonia to his nostrils. The powerful stimulant revived him just as the girl came running back with the water. He opened his eyes, and the first object they rested upon was her anxious pitiful face. He smiled and whispered gallantly: “Don’t be afraid. I’m all right––now!”
“Then I’ll drink first,” said Blake.