Chet carefully counted his ribs.
"Guess not," he announced, cheerfully. "I think I'm all here, safe and sound. Wow! What a spill that was!"
Joe got to his feet.
"Good thing this is a soft ditch," he said. "It's lucky somebody didn't get a broken neck."
"Well, nobody did, and that's that. How about the bikes?"
Frank examined his own motorcycle, righted it, and found that the machine was not damaged beyond a bent mudguard. He had managed to slow down sufficiently before careering into the ditch, so that much of the shock had been averted and the motorcycle had simply turned over into the spongy turf.
"My bike's all right," announced Chet. "It's bent a little here and there, but it's good for a few more miles yet."
"Same here," said Joe Hardy, looking up. "I think we're mighty lucky to get off so easily."
"You mighta run me down!" roared the driver of the hay wagon, now that he had recovered from his fright. "Tearin' and snortin' down the road on them contraptions—"
"Why don't you watch the road?" asked Frank. "You heard us coming. We couldn't see you. You might have killed the three of us, driving out like that. You didn't have anything to worry about."