But even old John had been quicker than they and was now bending above the lad crushed beneath the forward wheels of this hated “go-devil.”
“Oh! my poor lad! Oh! my sunny Robin!” he groaned: then in a fury of anger at the great machine, tried his strength to lift it from its victim.
Fortunately there were several men in the party, and the car well equipped against mischance, and so it was swiftly forced away, while the farmer again stooped over the motionless lad beneath and tenderly raised him in his arms. For a moment the group gathered about the pair believed that the boy was dead; then a low moan from his white lips mingled with the lamentations of John Gilpin and brought relief to everyone.
Again came flashes of lightning and the growls of thunder, and the owner of the car exclaimed:
“Lay the boy in the motor and we’ll get him to a hospital at once. Maybe he isn’t so badly hurt as seems. Pile up the cushions, somebody, and give him to me, old man. I’m stronger than you and better used to sick folks. Doctor Winston is my name.”
“The more shame to you then for what you’ve done this night!” hotly retorted old John, clasping his burden the closer and moving slowly toward his own humble cart.
“Idiot! Don’t put him in that shaky wagon. Delay may cost his life. Hospital’s the place and the car is swiftest!” cried another of the gentlemen, indignantly. “Of course we’ll see to it that he has the best of care with no expense spared.”
As if he had not heard, old John still moved away, quietly ordering Dorothy:
“Undo that shawl of yours. Roll them barrels out of the wagon. Take off your jacket and make a piller of it. Spread the shawl out and cover him with part of it whilst I lay him down. Poor little Robin! The ‘only son of his mother and she was a widow.’”