It was part of an overall suit, and there, thrust out of the lower end and twisted grotesquely to one side, was a foot!
“Oh-h-h-h-ee!” screamed Sim, dropping her apples. “Oh, girls, look here! Quick! Hurry!”
She stood in a panic of terror, rooted as firmly to the spot, for the moment, as one of the black gnarled trees.
“What is it, Sim? What’s the matter?” gasped Terry, the first to arrive.
“Look!” Sim pointed, breathless. She and the others, for Arden was now one of the trio beneath the tree, saw more than just the overall leg and the foot. They saw the huddled form of a man partly buried in the fallen leaves. And they could see—his face!
“Why, it’s Tom—the porter!” cried Arden. Instantly she was down on her knees beside him. “His head is cut. We must get help. Sim! Terry! Come here to me!”
Arden was dependable in a real emergency. She attempted to lift the death-like head. Terry struggled to help her while Sim bravely tried to straighten out a crooked arm beneath the senseless form.
It was so terribly tragic. The girls saw where all that blood was coming from. Tom Scott’s forehead was cut, and the wound appeared to be serious. Realizing this, the three hesitated about what to do next.
“Oh!” gasped Terry. “Is he—dead?”
“No,” Arden answered. “I can feel him breathing. But he’s had a hard blow.”