“Not much. Take the next left turn, please.”
Sim did this. Down a country road, lined on each side with bare trees, they saw a small house.
“There’s the place, miss! That’s where Jim lives,” eagerly called the helping man, who had said his name was Nate Waldon. “I’ll be glad when we get him home. I hope the doctor will come soon.”
“So do I,” murmured Arden.
“We certainly do manage to get into the most curious mix-ups,” suggested Sim as she ran the car around the bend and up as close as she could get to the house, which had a drive on one side. There was a barn in the rear, but no evidence that it was used as a garage.
It was a small house; not unlike, Arden reflected, a picture of the huts used by the soldiers of Washington’s army when it was encamped in Jockey Hollow so many years ago.
At the sound of the stopping car, evidently something unusual in front of that little house, a young woman, followed by a small girl about five years old, quickly opened the door and looked out. Then, as she evidently caught sight of her husband held in the arms of Nate, she ran out, crying:
“Oh, Jim! What has happened! Are you hurt? Oh, Jim!”
Sim and Arden quickly alighted and helped Nate lift the still unconscious Jim out of the rumble seat. It wasn’t easy, for the limp form was heavy.
“He’s coming to, I think,” said Arden in a low voice to Sim. “I saw his eyelids flutter.”