Then he went
down and stood among them.
"Didn't you see him drowning there?" a fellow demanded of him.
"Yes, I did," said Tom.
The other stared at him for a moment with a peculiar expression, then
swung on his heel and strode away.
Tom craned his neck to see and spoke to those nearest him, but they only
answered perfunctorily or ignored him altogether. He moved around to
where Roy stood, and Roy, without looking at him, pressed farther into
the crowd.
"That's he," a boy near him whispered to his neighbor; "stood on the end
of the board, watching. I didn't think we had any cowards here."
In every face and most of all in the faces of his own troop Tom saw
contempt plainly written. He could not go away from them, for that might
excite fresh comment; so he remained, trying to disregard the
significant glances and swallowing hard to keep down the lump which kept
rising in his throat.
Soon the doctor came, relieving Doc Carson of the Ravens, and the
half-drowned boy was taken to his cabin.
"He--he's all right, isn't he?" Tom asked of the doctor.
"Yes," said the doctor, briefly. "He's one of your own patrol, isn't
he?"
"Yes--sir."
The doctor looked at him for a moment and then turned away.
"Hello, old man," said Garry, as he passed him, hurrying to the
pavilion. "Cold feet, eh? Guess you got a little rattled. Never mind."
The words stabbed Tom like a knife, but at least they were friendly and
showed that Garry did not entirely condemn him.
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