"I wish we had something to wash his face with," sighed Willy, "but I haven't got a handkerchief."
"Neither have I." Willy looked thoughtful. A second more and he had stripped off his light sailor's jacket and dipped it in the water. The next minute the two boys were running up the hill again.
When they reached the spot where the wounded man lay, he had slipped down and was flat on the ground. His feeble voice still called for water, but was much weaker than before. Frank stooped and held the canteen to the man's lips, and he drank. Then Willy and Frank, together, bathed his face with the still dripping cotton jacket. This revived him somewhat; but he did not recognize them and talked incoherently. They propped up his head.
"Frank, it's getting mighty late, and we've got to go home," said Willy.
The boys' voice or words reached the ears of the wounded man.
"Take me home," he murmured; "I want some water from the well by the dairy."
"Give him some more water."
Willy lifted the canteen. "Here it is."
The soldier swallowed with difficulty.
He could not raise his hand now. There was a pause. The boys stood around, looking down on him. "I've come back home," he said. His eyes were closed.