Tim dipped his scarf in the water and wrapped it around the hurt. Of course, it might be a slight sprain, or it might be severe. Don kept staring at the foot and frowning. Tim, whistling softly under his breath, changed the compress twice.
"It hasn't swollen much," said Don. "Maybe I could walk on it."
"Here," said Tim; "lean on my arm."
Don hobbled. The pain was slight. He could walk on the foot if he favored it carefully, but speed was out of the question. He let go of the supporting arm and sank to the ground.
He was a hindrance—just so much dead weight. Sooner or later the pursuing scouts would find that they were on a false scent, and would begin to scour the woods. Mr. Wall had said that the treasure had to be brought out safely, but he did not say that two scouts had to bring it out.
Don bent over the ankle. "You'd better make a run for it, Tim."
"What's that?" Tim's eyes opened wide. "How about you?"
"Bring the fellows back for me after you get out. Hurry."
But instead of hurrying, Tim stood still. "Nothing doing," he said. "You'd stick to me if I were in a fix. I'd be a fine scout to run away, wouldn't I?"
Don bent lower over the ankle. Once Tim would have gone off promptly and have taken glory out of individual achievement. Now he stuck. Oh, but scouting was a great game when fellows played it right!