They managed to convey the insensible man to the dilapidated structure Tom had mentioned. Its roof was like a sieve, and several boards were missing from its sides, but it afforded some security from the tempest.
Tom placed a pile of old bags under the man’s head and set the lantern near.
“Do you know him, Tom?” asked Harry.
“Oh, yes, he is almost a neighbor of ours. He runs a small truck farm and has quite a family. Wet this, Harry, soaking.”
Tom gave his handkerchief to his companion, who went outside and saturated it in a deep puddle. Tom washed the dirt from the face of the injured man and tried to staunch the flow of blood.
He listened at his heart and to his breathing, and lifted the limb that seemed to have lost its natural power.
“He breathes all right,” reported Tom to his anxious companion. “His arm is sprained or broken, though.”,
“We must get him home, Tom.”
“In this storm—with no conveyance?”
“That’s so. He might die, though, if we don’t get a doctor.”