THE GOOD TURN
What happened then, happened like a flash of lightning. For a brief
second they saw Blythe hanging from the collapsing structure. Then they
saw him let go. Perhaps they did not know the full significance of Roy's
predicament. They thought Blythe stark mad.
He struck the flooring with a thud, drew his breath and grabbed his
ankle in a sudden twinge of pain, stood, fell again with an exclamation
of agony, then dragged himself to his hands and knees, and pulled Roy to
the ground. Bracing his own back above the prostrate form he waited, the
cords standing out on his arms like ropes. He gulped and jerked his head
as if to shake away the agony that seemed killing him. His body was well
clear of the small form beneath him. And thus he waited, one second, two
seconds,--
And then with an appalling sound of splitting timbers the whole
structure collapsed and fell upon him.
So suddenly did this happen that Blythe had scarcely braced himself over
Roy's body when both were buried under the fallen debris. Nor had the
scouts at the edge of the roof wholly escaped; several who had not
jumped quickly enough and far enough received slight cuts and bruises
from the falling timbers.
Scrambling to their feet they called to the victims who were pinned
unseen beneath the wreckage, starting at the same time to haul away the
debris. There was no answer from beneath.
"What did he do? What did he do it for?" one asked.
"Why didn't Roy get from under?"
"Search me; hurry up, pull the stuff off them."
"Blythe is crazy."
"Sure he is."
"He didn't think fast enough; he's not to blame. Hurry up."
"Roy was crazy, you mean."
They worked frantically pulling away the fallen boards and beams, Grove
Bronson with a handkerchief wound around his bleeding hand, Wig Weigand
with a great bruise on his forehead. Pee-wee strove like a giant. Soon
the form of Blythe was revealed, braced by his hands and knees, and Roy
lying prostrate beneath him.
"How are you?" one of the scouts called.
"All right," Roy answered; "my foot is caught under the flooring."
"Blythe all right? How about you, Blythey?"
Blythe did not answer. He seemed immovable, like a figure of stone. His
bare arms gave the impression of a taut rope. A heavy timber which they
lifted from across his back, where it had lain like a seesaw, must have
all but broken his spine. A rusted nail in it had torn his poor, shabby
coat almost in twain, and there was blood on the flannel shirt beneath
it. Blood was flowing freely from a wound in his head and dripping down
from his neck like water off a roof.
They turned back his coat collar to see if there might be a cut on his
neck and there, confronting them, was the little cloth label containing
the name of the clothing store in Quebec. It shocked the scouts to see
that in the very moment of their friend's supreme heroism.
"Blythe? Are you all right? Speak? Stand up, can't you?"
He neither moved nor spoke. He seemed transformed into an iron brace.
Across the calves of his legs lay a heavy timber, which had cut his
trousers and which must almost have crushed his legs when it fell. As
they lifted it blood trickled away. They noticed that he moved both feet
spasmodically as if they had been asleep. There could have been no
circulation there, for the timber across his legs had acted like a great
tourniquet.
He remained immovable, silent, until the scouts had released Roy's foot
and helped him out from under that human roof. That roof, at least, had
not collapsed. Bruised and bleeding as Blythe was, he remained in his
attitude of Herculean resistance as if he had died and become petrified
there.
Then he spoke, his voice weak but tense, "Is he all right?"
"Yes, I'm all right," said Roy; "how about you?"
Blythe did not answer. He drew himself to his feet, reeled, clutched at
Westy who stood nearest, and fell to the ground insensible.
Just at that moment Warde Hollister noticed something, and without
speaking indicated it to one or two others. It was a trifling
coincidence and held his glance and thought for but a second. On an end
of fallen beam which protruded from the wreckage sat a robin with head
cocked sideways watching the stricken, unconscious hero.
It seemed odd that right in that minute of his heroic abandonment, his
companions should be reminded of his villainy and of his gentleness....