“Was the red, blood? Is he all killed?” asked Phyllis, screwing her eyelids more tightly together.
“Killed? Nonsense!” said Peter. “There’s nothing red about him except his jersey. He’s only fainted. What on earth are we to do?”
“Can we move him?” asked Bobbie.
“I don’t know; he’s a big chap.”
“Suppose we bathe his forehead with water. No, I know we haven’t any, but milk’s just as wet. There’s a whole bottle.”
“Yes,” said Peter, “and they rub people’s hands, I believe.”
“They burn feathers, I know,” said Phyllis.
“What’s the good of saying that when we haven’t any feathers?”
“As it happens,” said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, “I’ve got a shuttlecock in my pocket. So there!”
And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red-jerseyed one. Bobbie burned the feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose, Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as fast and as earnestly as they could:—
“Oh, look up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!”
XII
What Bobbie Brought Home
“Oh, look up! Speak to me! For my sake, speak!” The children said the words over and over again to the unconscious hound in a red jersey, who sat with closed eyes and pale face against the side of the tunnel.
“Wet his ears with milk,” said Bobbie. “I know they do it to people that faint—with eau de cologne. But I expect milk’s just as good.”
So they wetted his ears, and some of the milk ran down his neck under the red jersey. It was very dark in the tunnel. The candle end Peter had carried, and which now burned on a flat stone, gave hardly any light at all.
“Oh, do look up,” said Phyllis. “For my sake! I believe he’s dead.”
“For my sake,” repeated Bobbie. “No, he isn’t.”
“For any sake,” said Peter; “come out of it.” And he shook the sufferer by the arm.
And then the boy in the red jersey sighed, and opened his eyes, and shut them again and said in a very small voice, “Chuck it.”
“Oh, he’s not dead,” said Phyllis. “I knew he wasn’t,” and she began to cry.
“What’s up? I’m all right,” said the boy.
“Drink this,” said Peter, firmly, thrusting the nose of the milk bottle into the boy’s mouth. The boy struggled, and some of the milk was upset before he could get his mouth free to say:—
“What is it?”
“It’s milk,” said Peter. “Fear not, you are in the hands of friends. Phil, you stop bleating this minute.”
“Do drink it,” said Bobbie, gently; “it’ll do you good.”
So he drank. And the three stood by without speaking to him.
“Let him be a minute,” Peter whispered; “he’ll be all right as soon as the milk begins to run like fire through his veins.”
He was.
“I’m better now,” he announced. “I remember all about it.” He tried to move, but the movement ended in a groan. “Bother! I believe I’ve broken my leg,” he said.
“Did you tumble down?” asked Phyllis, sniffing.
“Of course not—I’m not a kiddie,” said the boy, indignantly; “it was one of those beastly wires tripped me up, and when I tried to get up again I couldn’t stand, so I sat down. Gee whillikins! it does hurt, though. How did you get here?”
“We saw you all go into the tunnel and then we went across the hill to see you all come out. And the others did—all but you, and you didn’t. So we are a rescue party,” said Peter, with pride.
“You’ve got some pluck, I will say,” remarked the boy.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Peter, with modesty. “Do you think you could walk if we helped you?”
“I could try,” said the boy.
He did try. But he could only stand on one foot; the other dragged in a very nasty way.
“Here, let me sit down. I feel like dying,” said the boy. “Let go of me—let go, quick—” He lay down and closed his eyes. The others looked at each other by the dim light of the little candle.
“What on earth!” said Peter.
“Look here,” said Bobbie, quickly, “you must go and get help. Go to the nearest house.”
“Yes, that’s the only thing,” said Peter. “Come on.”
“If you take his feet and Phil and I take his head, we could carry him to the manhole.”
They did it. It was perhaps as well for the sufferer that he had fainted again.
“Now,” said Bobbie, “I’ll stay with him. You take the longest bit of candle, and, oh—be quick, for this bit won’t burn long.”
“I don’t think Mother would like me leaving you,” said Peter, doubtfully. “Let me stay, and you and Phil go.”
“No, no,” said Bobbie, “you and Phil go—and lend me your knife. I’ll try to get his boot off before he wakes up again.”
“I hope it’s all right what we’re doing,” said Peter.
“Of course it’s right,” said Bobbie, impatiently. “What else would you do? Leave him here all alone because it’s dark? Nonsense. Hurry up, that’s all.”
So they hurried up.
Bobbie watched their dark figures and the little light of the little candle with an odd feeling of having come to the end of everything. She knew now, she thought, what nuns who were bricked up alive in convent walls felt like. Suddenly she gave herself a little shake.
“Don’t be a silly little girl,” she said. She was always very angry when anyone else called her a little girl, even if the adjective that went first was not “silly” but “nice” or “good” or “clever.” And it was only when she was very
