'No, it is Wilson,' said another voice.
'No, it is not, it is Cranbourne,' said a third; but all the time we never allowed Graham to get anywhere near the bed, so as to look close.
'He can't be hurt,' repeated Graham. He had thrown down the turnip, and though we could not see his face, we guessed from his voice that he was as badly scared as we had meant him to be.
'Perhaps he could be brought round by artificial respiration,' suggested Shepherd. 'One of you fellows fetch up Smith quickly. He understands that sort of thing.'
Graham did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He ran, and, as we heard afterwards, he burst into the study where Smith, the Captain of the House, and, it so happened, the Doctor himself, were having a talk.
'He is dying!' screamed Graham. 'Come quickly and try and save him.'
'Who is dying?' cried the Doctor in amazement.
'Wilson, or Sergeant, or Cranbourne,' gasped Graham.
So they both followed Graham upstairs as fast as they could go—only to find our dormitory perfectly still and quiet, and every one in it apparently fast asleep.
'Wilson! Sergeant! Cranbourne! where are you?' called out the Doctor.