"
"Tom Slade? How did _he_ get here?"
"Came up through the woods and brought us a rope. _We're_ all right, but
he's played out. Got a stretcher?"
"Sure."
They came up, swinging their lanterns, to where Tom lay on the ground
with Garry's jacket folded under his head for a pillow, and they
listened soberly to Garry's simple tale of the strange, shrouded
apparition that had emerged from the flames with the precious life line
coiled about its neck.
It was hard to believe, but there were the cold facts, and they could
only stand about, silent and aghast at what they heard.
"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.
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