It was Sunday and we didn't need the fish. We didn't intend to go to sleep; we just let them show us a place, in the bunk-house, and we lay down, for a minute. For we were ready to help, as well as the rest of them. A Scout must not be afraid of blood or wounds. We only lay down with a blanket over us, instead of going fishing--and when I opened my eyes again the sun was bright and Fitz and Ward were peeking in on us. They were pale, but they looked happy. Van and I tried to sit up. "Is it over with?" we asked. "Sure." "Did he take it out? Was that what was the matter?" "Yes. Want to see it?" No, we didn't. I didn't, anyway. "How is he? Can we see him?" "The doctor says he'll be all right. Maybe you can see him. He's out from under. It's one o'clock." One o'clock! Phew! We were regular deserters--but we hadn't intended to be. We tumbled out, now, and hurried to wash and fix up, so that we would look good to the major. Sick people are finicky. The daughter was in the kitchen, but the mother and the doctor were eating. There was a funny sweetish smell, still; smell of chloroform. It is a serious smell, too. The doctor smiled at us. "I ought to have taken yours out, while you were asleep," he joked. "I've been thinking of it." "Is he all right?" we asked; Fitz and Ward behind us, ready to hear again. "Bully, so far." "Indeed he is," added the mother. "Can we see him?" "You can stand on the threshold and say one word: 'Hello.'" We tiptoed through. The bed was clean and white, with a sheet outside instead of the colored spread; and the major was in it. The Elks' flag was spread out, draped over the dresser, where he could see it. His eyes opened at us. He didn't look so very terrible, and he tried to grin. "How?" he said. "Hello," said we; and we gave him the Scouts' sign. "Didn't even make me sick," he croaked. "But I can't get up. Don't you fellows wait. You go ahead." "We will," we said, to soothe him. Then we gave him the Scouts' sign again, and the silence sign, and the wolf sign (for bravery) (Note 66), and we drew back. The doctor had told us that we could say one word, and we had been made to say three! We had seen that the major was alive and up and coming (not really up; only going to be, you know); but this was another anxious day, I tell you! Having an appendix cut out is no light matter, ever--and besides, here was the fourteenth day on the trail! The major would not be able to stir for a week and a half, maybe; yet Green Valley, our goal, was only twenty-one miles away!