IT NEVER RAN SMOOTH.
“You’re not killed, are you?” she sobbed, trying to stanch the flow
of blood that trickled from a gash at the edge of his hair near his
temple.
“If I am,” he returned, with a feeble effort to jest, “I don’t know
it yet.”
“But you’re hurt. You struck on your head.”
“Probably that saved my life. Solid ivory, you know. I will admit
that I feel a trifle upset, so to speak. No, don’t move—please
don’t! The mere thought of your moving gives me pain.”
“But I must go for help. You’re wounded.”
“I am,” he admitted, gazing up into her blue eyes in a manner that
gave her a most peculiar sensation. “Mortally wounded. I fear. I
never was hit so hard in my life, and I am afraid I can’t recover.”
Again she cried out in apprehension and distress. “Oh, I was afraid
you were done for when that beast caught you!”
“I am,” was his singularly cheerful acknowledgment; “I’m done for.
I’ve got mine. The jig is up with me.”
“Is it your arms, your legs? Your ribs—are they smashed? Where do
you feel it most?”
“Here,” he answered, putting his hand to his heart. “Rut it isn’t my
ribs; it’s something deeper, Daphne.”
“That isn’t my name; it’s Bessie.”
“Bessie! Mine’s George. Awfully commonplace, isn’t it? Now, if my
folks had only called me Reginald——”
“You mustn’t try to talk. I’m sure it’s painful. You must keep
still.”
“I will if you’ll keep on talking yourself. The sound of your voice
soothes me like the murmuring of a brook. Your eyes are like
springtime violets. The touch of your little hand is as delicious as
a draft of pure water to a person dying of thirst. Now I’ll leave it
to you if a Reginald could beat that speech much.”
She stiffened and drew back a bit, the color beginning to return to
her pale cheeks. They looked at each other steadily, and the
returning flush covered her face.
Beyond the fence the victorious bull pawed the ground; from a
vantage of safety the old dog glared through the rails and regarded
the bull with disapproval, but the man and girl paid no attention to
either of them. The girl had turned her gaze toward the distant road
that wound down into the village.
“I don’t believe you are hurt much,” she said, in a low voice,
which, however, was made unsteady by a queer little throbbing in her
throat. “If you were, you couldn’t talk like that.”
“It’s because I am that I can talk like that,” he declared. “It’s
the first time I ever talked that way to any one.”
“Your friends who have to get to Albion,” she murmured; “I’m afraid
they’ll lose their train.”
“By Jove!” he cried, sitting up suddenly. “I’d clean forgotten
them!”
“You were fooling me!” she exclaimed, as she started to rise.
With a groan he fell back. The crimson, oozing from his wound, ran
down across his temple, and in another moment she was again checking
the flow with her handkerchief. His eyes were closed, and she
imagined he had fainted.
“Oh, dear!” She seemed distraught. “I don’t know what to do! I’ve
got to get help, but if I leave you, you may bleed to death.”
“Don’t let me bleed to death,” he begged faintly. “Don’t leave
me—Bessie. You mustn’t leave me—as long as I live.”
It seemed a great effort for him to lift his eyelids, but he looked
at her again, and the appeal in his eyes filled her with a feeling
of desperation.
“You must have a doctor.”
“You’re the only doctor I want. You’re the only doctor who can cure
me. If you throw up the case and turn me over to a common pill
slinger, I’ll never get over it.”
“But I’ve simply got to get help for you somehow. I’ll hurry.”
“I can’t let you go. I’m an awful coward, you know, and——”
“You’re nothing of the sort! I’ve never seen anybody as brave as you
are.”
A tremor ran over his body. At first she thought it was a convulsive
movement of pain, but when it continued she was overcome by the
astounding conviction that he was laughing. Astonishment gave place
to outraged indignation. There was no mistaking the fact that he was
really shaking with laughter that he sought in vain to suppress. She
leaped up, letting him drop back, and stood rigid, filled with
intense resentment.
“You—you’re making sport of me!” she said, in a low voice that
suddenly had in it something like icy brittleness. “You’ve been
playing on my sympathy! You’re not really hurt—much. It was a very
ungentlemanly thing to do! I hope you have enjoyed yourself!”
He sat up without much effort. “I give you my word of honor that I
didn’t mean to laugh at you. Perhaps my head is affected a little.
This crack on the bean must be the cause. It really was some bump.”
“You—you wretch!” she cried, stamping her foot. “I hate you!”
Her little hands were tightly clenched. She turned away to hide the
tears which welled again into her eyes; but now they were tears of
exasperation, shame, and rage.
He got quickly to his feet. “Please, Bessie!” he said. “You don’t
understand. Not for the world would I——”
He stopped short, staring across at the road, down which a touring
car containing two men was speeding toward the village.
“Great Caesar!” he cried. “There goes the governor! Hitchens must
have got the engine running somehow. They’ll expect to find me in
town.” With all the strength of a good pair of lungs, he shouted,
waving his hands above his head. The automobile sped on. Its
occupants neither saw nor heard him.
“I guess I’m left for the time being,” he said. “They’ll go ripping
straight through to catch that train at Albion.”
“They won’t rip through very far,” Miss Wiggin flung at him.
“There’s a trap just outside the village, watched by a deputy
sheriff and two constables. Your old governor will be nabbed and
pulled up before my father, who will soak him with a fine. And I
hope dad soaks him good,” she finished, laughing, and doing so with
a vindictiveness that seemed to afford her untold relief and
satisfaction.