Then a tenser silence than before fell over the scene, for Jane was crying:
“Are you all right, Oliver? Can you speak? What is it, dearest? What are you trying to say?”
“Don’t try to speak yet, Baxter,” cautioned Lansing. “Plenty of time. You’re all right. You’ll be yourself in a few minutes. Thank God, we got here when we did.”
“Keep quiet!” ordered a voice in the mob. “He wants to say something. He’s alive, and he wants to say something. Sh!”
“Drop that rope!” roared Sammy as one of the crowd left the circle and hastily reached for the rope. The fellow leaped back as if stung.
“I was only meanin’ to take it back to Ollie’s store,” he whined. “It belongs to him.”
“Take him to a doctor’s!” roared a dozen anxious men.
“Clear the road!” roared others.
“Slink back into the foul fastnesses of yon accursed swamp,” rang out the voice of the great Josephine Judge. They got Oliver into the forward car, where he huddled down between Jane and her mother. They heard him whisper hoarsely, jerkily:
“Never mind about me—I’m—all right. They won’t try—it again. Look after Aunt—Serepta first. She’s hurt. They left her—lying up—”