“OK,” cried Jim, and he and Vench set off at a brisk trot and soon were lost to sight down the winding road.
“Car must have skidded on the road,” observed Douglas, as they pulled the sled with its silent burden.
“It did,” agreed Don. “I noticed the marks on the snow. This old road must be a shortcut to Portville and Mr. Gates was taking it on the way home from wherever he has been. The snow just at that point was pretty hard and slippery and the car hit the tree, buckling up. That was the crash that I heard.”
“It must have been,” Douglas replied. “Do you think he’ll die?”
“Hard to tell,” shrugged Don. “We can’t be sure how badly he is hurt inside. I hope we aren’t far from Portville.”
They were not, but it seemed like a longer journey than it actually was. Terry helped greatly by pushing and guiding the sled over obstructions and places that would have jarred the man. Now and then they heard low groans from Mr. Gates, but he did not regain consciousness.
Don knew the Gates’ home by a description which the colonel had given him and they had no difficulty in finding it. Since there was no hospital nearby they knew that their best plan was to get Gates to his own home as soon as possible. It was with a vast sense of relief that they ran the bob-sled up the driveway of the Gates home and came to a halt before the wide front doors.
“Well, I’m glad that is over!” murmured Terry, straightening his aching back.
Don ran swiftly up the front porch and rang the bell madly. It seemed an unusually long time before a very deliberate and correct butler opened the door. He stared at Don with expressionless eyes.
“Mr. Gates has been hurt,” Don cried. “Get his bed ready and open these doors wide, so that we can carry him upstairs.”