“Oh, don’t!” he whined. “Don’t hurt me now! I’m dying!”
“I will not hurt you,” assured Frank. “I have no desire to harm you now. I am here to help you—if I can.”
“To help me?” repeated Dyke, in wonder.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Let me look at that wound. It may not be so bad, and I may be able to check the flow of blood till it can be properly cared for.”
“Would you do that—for me?”
“Yes. I do not wish to see you die. As yet you have done me no great injury. It is your father who has injured me.”
Frank opened the fellow’s coat and vest, and then made a slit in his shirt and under-garment, exposing the wound, which was bleeding freely. The sight of the blood completely unmanned Dyke, who sobbed:
“Oh, I know I shall die! I am not ready to die! It is a terrible thing to have to die! Save me—save me somehow!”