“The man must be crazy!” muttered Linda, discreetly pointing her autogiro upward. “Or drunk!”
An instant later the car knocked the girl down, threw her up against the bank, and by some miracle, regained its position again and sped away.
“He’s killed her!” screamed Dot. “A hit-and-runner!”
Linda brought her plane downward, but it was too far away to see the man so that she might identify him later, except by that beard.
“There isn’t a soul in sight!” observed Dot. “You’re going to land?”
Linda nodded; luckily her autogiro didn’t need a special field. She descended and brought it to a stop, not far from the injured girl. She and Dot climbed out, dashed over the field to the road, and picked up the victim in their arms. She was a young girl, possibly about fourteen years of age, whether dead or merely unconscious, they could not tell. Blood was running from her head.
“We’ll carry her over beside the autogiro, and apply first aid,” said Linda. “Luckily I have all sorts of supplies with me—and water.”
She was a pretty girl, except that there was something decidedly pathetic about her whole appearance. Her clothing was not ragged, but dreadfully out of style; her straight hair hung about her temples without any attempt to make it becoming. It was neither long nor short, and had no ribbon, no pin of any kind to keep it out of her eyes. Her sweater looked like a man’s, and her skirt was evidently handed down from an older woman. Her whole body was so thin that she looked almost emaciated. Her face was a blank white, with no make-up to relieve the pallor.
Linda bound up the wound, and after some minutes the girl finally opened her eyes. Deep, black eyes they were, that appeared huge in such a small, colorless face, eyes that gazed at the girls without any understanding.
“How do you feel now?” asked Linda, still kneeling beside her, and offering her water from a thermos bottle.