So Jack got on, and made it comfortable for Andy, whose head he had bound up with his own handkerchief and several others. Although they felt sore in every joint, Harry and Boxy insisted on helping Pickles drag the sled to its destination.
“The Buster is smashed to bits,” said Boxy on the way.
“I know it,” returned Harry. “But I don’t care,” he added, with a shudder. “I couldn’t bear to ride on her again after that narrow escape.”
“Nor I. My! I ain’t done trembling yet,” was Boxy’s confession, in a low tone.
The news of the accident had preceded them, and they found Mr. and Mrs. Bascoe anxiously awaiting their appearance.
“My boy!” cried the mother, as she caught Andy in her arms. “And you were almost killed?”
“Oh, no, mother; I struck my head, that’s all,” replied Andy, putting on a bold front. “I’ll be all right by to-morrow.”
Andy limped into the house, and a servant was dispatched for a doctor. When the physician arrived he declared that the bruise was not serious. The shock to the boy’s system was worse, and he must remain quiet for a day or two.
“We won’t be able to go away on Monday morning,” said Jack to the others. “Father says we had better wait until Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“I don’t care,” said Harry. “I am thankful we escaped being killed.”