feet had dragged and tripped him.

"That's what--you--get for--hurrying," he breathed heavily; "like Roy
always said--more haste--less---- Ouch, my ankle!"

He tried again to stand, but the pain was too great, and his head swam
so that he fell back on the rock.

"I wish Doc--Carson--was here," he managed to say. Doc was the troop's
First-Aid Scout. "It--it was just--because I didn't--lift my feet--like
Roy's always telling me--so clumsy!"

He soaked his handkerchief in antiseptic and bound it about his
forehead, which was bleeding less profusely. After a few minutes,
feeling less dizzy, he stood upon his feet, with a stoical disregard of
the pain, determined to continue his journey if he possibly could.

The agony was excruciating, but he set his strong, thick lips tight,
and, passing from one tree to another, with the aid of his hands, he
managed to get along. More than once he stopped, clinging to a tree
trunk, and raised his foot to ease the anguish. His head throbbed with a
cruel, steady ache, and the faintness persisted so that often he felt
he was about to reel, and only kept his feet by clinging to the trees.

"This--this is just about--the time I'd be going to that--racket----" he
said. "Gee, but that foot hurts!"

He would have made a sorry figure on the platform. His old khaki jacket
and trousers were almost in shreds. Bloodstains were all over his shirt.
A great bloody scratch was visible upon his cheek. His hands were cut by
brambles. There was a grim look on his dirty, scarred face. I am not so
sure that he would have looked any nobler if he had been in the
first-line trenches, fighting for Uncle Sam....

CHAPTER IX

ROSCOE JOINS THE COLORS

It was now nearly dark, and Tom worked his way along slowly, hobbling
where there were no trees, and grateful for their support when he found
them bordering the trail. His foot pained him exquisitely and he still
felt weak and dizzy.

At last, after almost superhuman efforts, he brought himself within
sight of the dark outline of the shack, which seemed more lonesome and
isolated than ever before. He saw that the light was from a fire in the
clearing near by, and a smaller light was discernible in the window of
the shack itself.

Tom had always stood rather in awe of Roscoe Bent, as one of humble
origin and simple ways is apt to feel toward those who live in a
different world. And even now, in this altogether strange situation and
with all the adv