“Oh, if he does, we——”
“Let him go!” broke in Neale. “We’ve got to look after Luke.”
By this time those waiting in the kitchen had sensed that something was wrong, for Hal called:
“What’s going on down there? Want any help? We heard a cry——”
“Yes, you’d better come down,” answered Neale. “Just you, Hal. Leave the girls up there. Luke’s been hurt and——”
“We won’t stay up here!” cried Nalbro. “We’re all coming down.”
“You’ll only be in the way!” snapped back Neale, speaking more sharply than he intended to, as he wanted to impress the girls. “We have to carry Luke up the stairs. Don’t crowd down. Come on, Hal!”
By this time Neale and Ruth had reached Luke’s side. The flashlight he carried was still glowing on the cellar floor at his side. By the gleam of this, and by the glimmer of his own torch, Neale saw that Luke bore no apparent injury.
“Luke, old man, do you know us?” called Neale, bending over the form of his friend and gently shaking him. “We’re here with you—Ruth and Neale.”
Ruth had taken Luke’s listless head into her lap, and was smoothing back the hair from the forehead. Then a big bruise was visible.