He seized a lantern and threw open the trap door. Harry was at his heels promptly. A gust of wind and a forceful dash of rain nearly swept them off their feet as they reached the ground.
“Which way?” asked Harry quickly.
“Hark!” interrupted Tom.
Again the cry rang out. It was fainter, less emphatic than before, but nearer. Tom could trace the point of the compass from which it came. He ran in that direction, holding the lantern before him.
“There he is!” cried Harry suddenly. “Don’t run over him, Tom.”
Coming to an abrupt halt, both boys stared in startled excitement at a human being on hands and knees making his way from the side of the road. Near to him was a tangled mass of wreckage which had been a bicycle. Its shattered skeleton covered a big flat rock, into which it had run to be completely demolished.
The recent rider was bareheaded, and from a wound in his temple the blood trickled down over his face and hands. One arm was helpless, and doubled up under him at every futile attempt at forward progress.
“Why,” shouted Tom, swinging the lantern forward so that its rays covered the man, “it’s Mr. Barton.”
“Tom—Tom—” quavered the man, looking up through half blinded eyes, “quick—the doctor!”
“What’s that?” Tom challenged, keenly alive to the fact that Mr. Barton’s presence and condition signified some important circumstance.