CHAPTER XX
THE RUSSIAN PAYS
When Peter came back to consciousness, he found himself lying in the shelter of the underbrush alone. And while he attempted to gather his scattered wits together a figure came creeping through the bushes toward him. It was Brierly, the clerk, carrying a hatful of water which he had procured from the neighboring rivulet. Brierly had a lump on his forehead about the size of a silver dollar, and his disheveled appearance gave evidence of an active part in the mêlée.
"What's happened?" asked Peter slowly, starting up as memory came back to him.
But Brierly didn't answer at once.
"Here, drink this. I don't think you're badly hurt——"
"No. Just dazed a bit," muttered Peter, and let Brierly minister to him for a moment.
"You see, there were too many for us," Brierly explained. "We made a pretty good fight of it at that, but they buried us by sheer weight of numbers. Yours isn't the only bruised head, though. Yakimov got his early in the game—and Jacobi. And gee! but that was a 'beaut' you handed Flynn—right in the solar plexus with your heel. The savate—wasn't it? I saw a Frenchy pull that in a dive in Bordeaux. I reckon Flynn won't be doin' much agitatin' for a while—except in his stommick."
"How did I get here?" asked Peter.