"Oh, Allen, Allen!" she was murmuring over and over in a way that
sent the blood pounding madly to Allen Washburn's head, and made the
wound a blessing. "Why didn't you tell me? Oh, your poor shoulder!
Some one get some water, quick," she ordered imperiously, turning to
the anxious group. "I don't think it's serious, but we must stop this
bleeding. Please hurry."

And hurry they did, bringing water from a near-by spring in cups they
expertly improvised from leaves as they had done so many times just
for the fun of it.

Then the boys produced some spotless white handkerchiefs, which
served as a makeshift bandage, till they could reach the cottage. The
bullet, as Betty had said, had not much more than grazed the
shoulder, yet the wound had bled profusely, and Allen was beginning
to feel a little sick and dizzy, from the loss of blood.

When at last all had been done, that it was possible to do, Allen was
helped down to the canoe, and they paddled home, a very much sobered
group of young people.

"Never mind," said Allen, in an attempt to lift the general
depression, as they neared the cottage. "We found the letter anyway,
which may be of considerable help to the government. And what's one
shoulder more or less in the cause?"