Then--ages later, it seemed--the doctor's voice:
"Are you two there?"
They hurried to him.
"We'll get him home," the doctor said. "A risk, moving him; but it's
worse to leave him lying under that log. The men are getting some of
the dogwood down, so that we can carry him out better. He's badly
knocked about, but his head's all right. The leg is the worst; it's
fractured in two places. You'll have a patient for a good while,
Norah."
"Then--then he won't die?"
"Die?" said the doctor. "Not a bit of it! He'll--ah, you poor child!"
For Norah had turned and clung to Jim, and was sobbing, while the big
fellow who bent over her and patted her was himself unable to speak.
Little Dr. Anderson patted them both, and choked himself, though he hid
it professionally with a cough. He remarked afterwards that he had not
known that young Norah Linton could cry.
It was only for a minute, though. The men came back carrying a
stretcher, and Norah and Jim sprang to help. Very gently they lifted
David Linton's unconscious form, and the four bore him slowly to the
wagon, Norah backing in front with two lanterns to light every step.
"Chancy work through them dorgwood spikes," said Dave Boone. But they
came out safely, and got him into the wagon, where a mattress was in
readiness.
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