“Highland Mary,” so Jamie, through narrowed eyes, looked steadily at the little Scout and then he said tentatively: “I thought you liked him.”
“Liked him?” said the little Scout. “Say, look here!”
Before Jamie’s eyes was thrust a grimy right hand. Smash down like the blade of a knife came the left across the wrist. Slowly the fingers of the right hand opened and closed.
“I need that in my business,” said the little Scout. “I couldn’t ride Queen; I couldn’t be leader of the Scouts; I couldn’t paddle my canoe; I couldn’t be the Bee Master’s partner without it, but if it would take that pain out of the Bee Master’s side, I’d give it to him, just like that!”
The right hand was severed and discarded in mighty effective pantomime.
A great big lump rose up in Jamie’s throat, threatening very nearly to choke him.
The small person stood on one foot and set the other on the bench and clasped a pair of grimy hands around the bended knee and leaned toward Jamie.
“I guess you got me wrong,” was the surmise that fell on his astounded ears. Then suddenly that position was relinquished and Jamie felt a small body beside him and a small head leaning precariously near the wound that made red stains on his breast, and one little abused hand Jay down on one of his hands, and a small face was lifted to his, and a voice, low and mellow and exceedingly sweet
