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"What?" asked Bobbie, her mouth already full, for she was just as hungry as Phyllis. "Don't you see," replied Peter, impressively, "that red-jerseyed hound has had an accident that's what it is. Perhaps even as we speak he's lying with his head on the metals, an unresisting prey to any passing express "
In this unreal frame of mind, then, and as one but partly belonging to the world of things actual, Cairn found himself an invalid, who but yesterday had been a hale man; found himself shipped for Port Said; found himself entrained for Cairo; and with an awakening to the realities of life, an emerging from an ill-dream to lively interest in the novelties of Egypt, found himself following the red-jerseyed Shepheard's porter along the corridor of the train and out on to the platform.
It was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and last time came out of his meditative trance. He leaned over the ropes, and spoke without heat, but firmly. "If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better than these boys, he can come right down into the ring." The whistling ceased.
Peter was lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled. "Come on," he said; but he had to clear his throat before he could speak in his natural voice. "Oh," said Phyllis, "if the red-jerseyed one was in the way of the train!" "We've got to go and see," said Peter. "Couldn't we go and send someone from the station?" said Phyllis.
The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly, hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee. Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. It was broken by a cow-boy yell from Billy Windsor. For the Kid, battered, but obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while on the ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly to the floor.
The darkness was more bearable to Bobbie now that her hand was held in the large rough hand of the red-jerseyed sufferer; and he, holding her little smooth hot paw, was surprised to find that he did not mind it so much as he expected.
There, by the curved, pebbly down line, was the red-jerseyed hound. His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply by his sides, and his eyes were shut. "Was the red, blood? Is he all killed?" asked Phyllis, screwing her eyelids more tightly together. "Killed? Nonsense!" said Peter. "There's nothing red about him except his jersey. He's only fainted. What on earth are we to do?"
It was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and last time came out of his meditative trance. He leaned over the ropes, and spoke, without heat, but firmly: "If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better than these boys, he can come right down into the ring." The whistling ceased.
At intervals the combatants would cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions the red-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same air of being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by the simple method of ploughing his way between the pair.
But though they waited and waited and waited, the boy in the red jersey did not appear. "Oh, let's have lunch," said Phyllis; "I've got a pain in my front with being so hungry. You must have missed seeing the red-jerseyed one when he came out with the others " But Bobbie and Peter agreed that he had not come out with the others.
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