No sooner had Arthur Cameron witnessed the collapse of the victim of the storm than his professional instincts were immediately aroused.
“He’s been badly injured, Hugh, I’m afraid!” he cried, excitedly. “We’ve just got to look after him, that’s all there is about it.”
Another second and Arthur was bending beside the tramp, whom he rolled over on his back. At the same time he called to Gus.
“Fetch one of those pillows we filled with hemlock browse, Gus, and put it under his head. That’s right, only handle him carefully, for I’m afraid he’s badly hurt.”
Hugh joined the others, ready to lend a helping hand. In like cases Hugh almost invariably deferred to the judgment of Arthur, because he recognized a superior along the line of “first aid to the injured.” Arthur, as has been said before, had always shown wonderful ability as an amateur surgeon, and his services were in frequent demand whenever the scouts went on a hike. Indeed, it was no unusual thing for the boys to address him by the title of “Doc,” which Arthur must have considered as high a compliment as any one could give him.
To watch him making an examination of the man’s limbs first of all one could easily imagine the boy had been in close touch with some practical surgeon. Had his patient been a king instead of a wretched tramp, possibly a fugitive from justice as well, Arthur could not have been more painstaking and gentle in his work.
“No limbs broken at any rate!” he announced, which gave Hugh more or less satisfaction, because he had feared that the examination might disclose some serious injury along those lines.
The man had not fainted, after all, it appeared, for he now gave signs of having heard Arthur’s announcement.
“Hurt all over—got caught under tree—just bruised, I reckon, but played out. It’s a terrible night, gents, that’s what!”
He used much more vigorous language than given above when expressing his opinion. Hugh would not stand for such a thing a minute.