The swamper was lying on his back, his eyes closed. From a great purple welt across his forehead the blood oozed sluggishly. When Val touched him he moaned faintly.
"Val! Are you hurt? What's the matter?" Ricky was upon them like a whirlwind out of the bush.
"Jeems stopped a nasty one," her brother panted.
"Is he—" She dropped down in the dust beside them.
"He's knocked out, and he'll have a bad headache for some time, but I don't think it's any worse than that."
Ricky had pulled out a microscopic bit of handkerchief and was dabbing at the blood in an amateurish way. Jeems moaned and turned his head as if to get away from her ministrations.
"Where's Rupert—and Sam?" Val looked toward the path. "They were with you, weren't they?"
Ricky shook her head. "No. That was just what you call creating a diversion. For all I know, they're busy at home."
Her brother straightened. "Then we've got to get out of here—fast. Those two left because they were rattled, but when they have had a chance to cool off they'll be back."
"What about Jeems?"