“Jode!” called Frank, kneeling beside him and touching his shoulder.
There was no answer from the lad who had fought so hard to clear his record. With a sinking sensation at his heart, Frank lifted Jode in his arms and turned his face upward. His cheek and temple were gashed and bleeding, and his eyes were closed.
“Can’t he talk?” asked Burke. “Is he unconscious?”
Frank nodded. “Let’s take him somewhere,” said he; “to the bunk house, where we can get him on a bed. He must be badly hurt, Burke.”
“I don’t see how he ever came through that alive!” muttered the superintendent.
A crowd had gathered, racing to the scene from the cyanide works, from the blacksmith shop, from the mill.
“That was the bravest thing I ever saw!” declared King, the cyanide expert. “Is he going to live, Burke?”
“Of course he’s going to live!” declared Frank, white-lipped but with a voice of conviction. “What do you think now,” he added, “you fellows that thought Jode was a thief and had a yellow streak?”
“If he had ever had a yellow streak,” returned King, “he has wiped it out for good and all.”
“King,” said Burke quietly, “telephone to town for a doctor. The rest of you men,” he added, “go back to your work. Everything possible will be done for Lenning—I don’t need to tell you that. Come on, Merriwell,” he finished, “and let’s get him to the bunk house.”