When Dale came to his senses he was lying flat on his back on some brushwood, with several lumbermen standing around him. One had been bathing his face, and another held a liquor flask in his hands.
"He's coming around," he heard, in Andy Westmore's voice. "I guess he wasn't hurt so much as we supposed."
"He had a close call, right enough," put in another lumberman. "I reckon you'd best give him a dose of the liquor, Andy."
"No, he doesn't use the stuff, Hank."
"Are any bones broken?" asked a third person of the group.
"Wouldn't be surprised if his left arm was broken," answered Andy Westmore. "It was doubled under him when we picked him up."
Dale opened his eyes and gazed around stupidly. Then he tried to sit up. A fearful pain in his left arm and shoulder caused him to sink back once more.
"Well, lad, how do you feel?" asked Westmore kindly, as he knelt on the brushwood.
"I—I don't know yet," gasped Dale. "My left arm—oh!"
"Guess it's broken, sure enough," said the older lumbermen. "Better let it rest till the doctor comes."