In a few words Tom told him something about the club. Then abruptly he demanded, “How about your hand?”
“I’ll tell you,” said the young man. “My name is Ralph Edmunds and I am a special correspondent for an Eastern newspaper syndicate.”
“Say, that’s a fine job,” said Cranny.
“You might not think so, if you’d been mixed up in some of the scraps I have!” remarked Edmunds dryly. “It’s a dangerous game.” The lines of his face became hard and stern. “I’ve been with the Federal troops and just last night we ran across a scouting party of Constitutionalists—whew—say—maybe it wasn’t some hot scrap. Rifles crack easily in this country, you know! Well, a stray bullet scraped my wrist. At first I thought it had ploughed clean through; but luckily it didn’t do any more than temporarily put it out of commission,—which is bad enough, and made me take a long wearisome ride back here.”
Expressions of sympathy came from the crowd.
“And—confound the luck, one of my most important articles is only half finished—what am I to do?” To emphasize his disgust Edmunds’ well hand came down on the table with a bang.
“First of all, let me take a look at your wrist,” said Tom in professional tones. “I’m going to be a doctor some day, you know.”
“I do now, at any rate,” remarked the newspaper man. “And I’m glad to hear it. You may save me the trouble of hunting up a Mexican medico.”
Tom always carried with him a small case containing all the necessary articles for the first aid to the injured treatment, and being deeply interested in the subject had received instructions from a physician in his home town, Kingswood. He left the room to return a moment later with the precious case tucked under his arm.
“Who bandaged it up for you?” demanded Tom, as he unwrapped the gauze.