"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."