“Jackson!” shouted old Henry, with a tremendous oath, rushing at the car. He tore open the door, threw his arms around the collapsed figure, half lifted it out, with broken, blasphemous ejaculations. Lockwood was just behind him. He caught a glimpse of the hatless, pallid face of the boy, grotesquely streaked with blood, the wet, torn clothing. The crowd surged up behind them, forgetting both Lockwood and Hanna in the amazement of this apparition that was like a resurrection from the dead.
Tom, his arm about his brother’s shoulder, was crying in his face:
“Who done it, Jackson? Who done it? Who shot you?”
The boy’s face worked. His eyes opened, and he rubbed his wet sleeve across them.
“Got yere!” he mumbled with the ghost of a chuckle. “They done throwed me in the river, but I got out. Knowed I could drive home ef I could start the d—d cyar. Hello, Lockwood!” catching sight of him. “Did they git you, too?”
“Not quite,” said Lockwood, speaking distinctly in the boy’s face. “Tell them who shot you, Jackson. Could you see?”
“Sure I seen him,” said Jackson faintly. “Seen him in the gun flash. I seen——By glory! thar he is now!”
He had caught sight of Hanna’s scared face as the crowd shifted. He seemed to collect himself with a vast effort, and swung up his arm, the hand closed, as if he fancied it still held a gun. For two or three seconds Hanna faced that unsteady, wavering arm; then his nerve broke. He gave a swift glance to right and left, ducked under the arms of the men next him, and bolted, disappearing toward the rear of the house.
There was an instant yelling rush in pursuit. Gun flashes split the darkness. Lockwood was left alone with Henry Power, still supporting Jackson’s almost inert body.
“Must get him into the house—put him to bed,” he said.