“Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Only the one saying there might be a possibility of trouble.”
“Well trouble came all right. I’ve been driven from the mine, and it’s in possession of a bad gang. So we can’t take the wounded man there.”
“What are we to do?” asked Jerry, seeing that Mr. Bell was bleeding badly.
“Bring him into my cabin,” said Nestor. “I came here after the gang drove me out. I can put you up, I guess.”
Jerry ran the car up close to the shanty and Mr. Bell, who was unconscious, was carried in and laid as tenderly as possible on the single bunk of which the place boasted.
“Now some warm water and clean clothes,” said Mr. Snodgrass. “I must wash the wound and see how bad it is.”
“I haven’t a bit of hot water,” said Nestor.
“There’s plenty in the radiator of the auto,” spoke Jerry. “Give me a pail and I’ll soon get some.”
He soon had a plentiful supply that was almost boiling, and, cooling it somewhat, the naturalist carefully washed the blood from the wounded man’s head. Then he examined the hurt.