Part 25 (1/2)

”We missed him,” said one scout.

”Is the camp saved?” asked Garry.

”Mostly, but we had a stiff job.”

”Don't talk about _our_ job,” said Doc Carson as he stooped, holding the lantern before Tom's blackened face and taking his wrist to feel the pulse.

Again there was silence as they all stood about and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough crept close to the prostrate form and gazed, fascinated, into that stolid, homely face.

And still no one spoke.

”It means the gold cross,” someone whispered.

”Do you think the gold cross is good enough?” Garry asked, quietly.

”It's the best we have.”

Then Roy, who was among them, kneeled down and put his arm out toward Tom.

”Don't touch my hand,” said Tom, faintly. ”It isn't that I don't want to shake hands with you,” he added. ”I wanted to do that when I met you--before supper. Only my hands feel funny--tingly, kind of--and they hurt.

”Any of my own patrol here?” he asked after a moment.

”Yes, Connie Bennett's here--and Will Bronson.”

”Then I'd rather have them carry the stretcher, and I'd like for you to walk along by me--I got something to say to you.”

They did as he asked, the others following at a little distance, except the little sandy-haired boy who persisted in running forward until Garry called him back and kept his own deterring arm about the boy's shoulder.