She fixed the little candle end on a broken brick near the red-jerseyed boy's feet. Then she opened Peter's knife. It was always hard to manage--a halfpenny was generally needed to get it open at all. This time Bobbie somehow got it open with her thumbnail. She broke the nail, and it hurt horribly. Then she cut the boy's bootlace, and got the boot off. She tried to pull off his stocking, but his leg was dreadfully swollen, and it did not seem to be the proper shape. So she cut the stocking down, very slowly and carefully. It was a brown, knitted stocking, and she wondered who had knitted it, and whether it was the boy's mother, and whether she was feeling anxious about him, and how she would feel when he was brought home with his leg broken. When Bobbie had got the stocking off and saw the poor leg, she felt as though the tunnel was growing darker, and the ground felt unsteady, and nothing seemed quite real. “SILLY little girl!” said Roberta to Bobbie, and felt better. “The poor leg,” she told herself; “it ought to have a cushion--ah!” She remembered the day when she and Phyllis had torn up their red flannel petticoats to make danger signals to stop the train and prevent an accident. Her flannel petticoat to-day was white, but it would be quite as soft as a red one. She took it off. “Oh, what useful things flannel petticoats are!” she said; “the man who invented them ought to have a statue directed to him.” And she said it aloud, because it seemed that any voice, even her own, would be a comfort in that darkness. “WHAT ought to be directed? Who to?” asked the boy, suddenly and very feebly. “Oh,” said Bobbie, “now you're better! Hold your teeth and don't let it hurt too much. Now!” She had folded the petticoat, and lifting his leg laid it on the cushion of folded flannel. “Don't faint again, PLEASE don't,” said Bobbie, as he groaned. She hastily wetted her handkerchief with milk and spread it over the poor leg. “Oh, that hurts,” cried the boy, shrinking. “Oh--no, it doesn't--it's nice, really.” “What's your name?” said Bobbie. “Jim.” “Mine's Bobbie.” “But you're a girl, aren't you?” “Yes, my long name's Roberta.” “I say--Bobbie.” “Yes?” “Wasn't there some more of you just now?” “Yes, Peter and Phil--that's my brother and sister. They've gone to get someone to carry you out.” “What rum names. All boys'.” “Yes--I wish I was a boy, don't you?” “I think you're all right as you are.” “I didn't mean that--I meant don't you wish YOU were a boy, but of course you are without wishing.” “You're just as brave as a boy. Why didn't you go with the others?” “Somebody had to stay with you,” said Bobbie. “Tell you what, Bobbie,” said Jim, “you're a brick. Shake.” He reached out a red-jerseyed arm and Bobbie squeezed his hand. “I won't shake it,” she explained, “because it would shake YOU, and that would shake your poor leg, and that would hurt. Have you got a hanky?”