“Dret—dretful!” gasped the injured boy weakly.
Brandon had to place his ear almost to his lips to distinguish his words.
“Right—here,” and he laid his hand feebly on his chest.
“That’s where he struck across the rail,” declared Milly, when Brandon had repeated these words to her. “Oh, the poor fellow has been hurt internally. Do you think the morning will ever come, Brandon?”
“I’m afraid it will come very soon for him, poor boy,” replied Don meaningly, and there were tears in his own eyes.
Swivel had closed his eyes and a strange, grayish pallor was spreading over his drawn features.
His hearing seemed wonderfully acute, however. He heard the word “morning” at least, and his eyes flew open again and he struggled to raise himself on his elbow.
“Is it morning now?” he asked feebly.
“No, no,” replied Brandon soothingly. “Not yet, Swivel. Don’t exert yourself. Lie down again.”
The injured youth strove to speak once more, but suddenly fell back upon the rude pillow Don had made of his coat, and a stream of blood flowed from his lips.