"Oh, what have you done, Kent! You shouldn't have taken the bandage off!" exclaimed Jot, in fright. "See how the blood is dripping from the cloth!" "It's nothing, I tell you!" growled Old Tilly. "Wind the thing up again! It's only a nail tear!" Old Tilly was swaying again, and they forced him gently back. The little woman looked up startled. "What is it, Jim? How did it happen?" she quavered. Jim's face looked very sober. "I guess I better fetch the doctor," he said. "He hurt it on a nail, he says. I won't stop to harness up--Old Betty's used to bein' rode bareback." He hurried away, followed by his wife. Jot was examining the torn wrist tenderly. Some new, untried strength seemed to spring into the brown, boyish face. It took on the lines of a man's. "It's an artery, Kentie. I know, because the blood leaps up so when the handkerchief is off. It can't have been bleeding all night. I don't understand." "It bled some last night," said Old Tilly, "but I stopped it. I guess I hit it someway just now against the table. It began again worse than ever. Cover it up, can't you? It's--all--right!" "It isn't all right! Get me a little stick, quick, Kentie! No, that fork'll do. Hand it here. This bleeding's got to stop." It seemed odd that it should be Jot--little, wild, scatter-brained Jot-- who should take the lead in that calm, determined way. What had come to the boy? With pale face and set teeth he quietly bound the handkerchief tightly above the wrist, and, inserting the fork handle in the knot, twisted it about. The bleeding lessened--stopped. "There! Now, if I keep a good grip on it--oh, I say, Kentie, wasn't I afraid I couldn't work it!" he said, breathing hard. "I don't see how you did work it! I don't see how you ever thought of it, Jot Eddy!" "Well, I did. I read how it was done, up in the consultery. Father may laugh, but I'm going to be a doctor!" Kent's face was full of new-born respect. He suddenly remembered that it was Jot who had set "Rover's broken leg and nursed the little sick calf that father set such store by. "I guess father won't laugh." Kent said soberly. Jot was sitting on the edge of the lounge holding the fork in a firm grasp. Old Tilly opened his eyes and nodded approvingly. "That's what I tried to do myself with the handkerchief--bind it tight. It wasn't very bad at first, but I jerked it or something. I didn't want you fellows' good time spoiled." "That's just like you!" burst out Kent. "You never tell when you get hurt, for fear other folks'll be bothered." The little woman crept back into the kitchen and went quietly about her work. The doctor soon came, and in a brief time the artery was taken up and the hand deftly bandaged. "Which of you fellows made that tourniquet with the fork?" the doctor asked brusquely. Kent pointed proudly to Jot.