“I’ve got a horse here,” was the answer. “I’ll be along at once. I’ve got to look after this animal now.”
Even in his haste and concern for the injured boy, Mr. Trevor looked up in surprise.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll look after him.”
The power was thrown on and the automobile was speeded to the center of the town. On the first motion of it the unconscious boy began to groan.
“He’s pretty white, father,” said Art over his shoulder. “Hurry.”
The suffering boy was dressed in soiled and worn clothing but it was now seen that he had a good face, clean-cut features, heavy brown hair and big hands, strong beyond his years, which very apparently were not more than seventeen.
At high speed Mr. Trevor dashed through the town to the side-tracked circus train. Both Mr. Trevor and Alex sprang out and ran to the old sleeping cars at the end of the train. They were all locked. There was no one in charge. If a colored man should have been there he had left his post.
“Don’t look any longer, father; I can’t stand his groanin’. Let’s find a doctor.”
Mr. Trevor whirled the machine into a side street and in a few moments stopped before a little single-room office on a back street.
“Brown,” he called anxiously, “hurry out here.”