Frank actually turned Lanky around, and gave him a shove. The tall boy glared once over his shoulder, and gave his chum a last look, in which affection mingled with the stern resolve that filled his soul.
Then he was away like the wind. Around the bend beyond he flashed as might a departing sunbeam; and Frank Allen, as he turned once more toward the injured boy, was saying gladly to himself:
“Lanky will do it! he’s keyed up to making a record run; and he’ll just pass the other fellows like they were standing still!”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE END OF THE LONG RUN
“Where are Asa Barnes and Wat Kline?”
Frank asked the question as he was bending down over the wounded boy, making a rude tourniquet, with which to stop the flow of blood, by compressing the leg above the broken part.
He put this question from a double motive; being curious to know why Bill’s cronies had not attempted to assist him in his trouble; and also to keep the mind of the wounded boy off his pain as much as he could.
“The skunks deserted me at the last!” grumbled Bill, gasping with the agony he was doubtless enduring.
“Do you mean they ran away, and left you like this?” demanded the amateur surgeon, twisting the stick he had inserted in the handkerchief that was already knotted around the leg.
“Naw, they never knowed anything about me bein’ hurt,” whimpered Bill, and then he gave a little snort, going on: “Ouch! that hurts like all get out, Frank! Let up on a feller a little, can’t you? I know I ain’t always treated you white; but sure you wouldn’t take it out on me, now I’m down!”