A youngish man, Dr. Brown, appeared in his shirt sleeves.
“What’s the matter?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the boy and springing to the lad’s side. “Seems to be in a bad way,” he added catching young Bonner’s wrist. In some mysterious way a few people began at once to surround the automobile.
“It’s a boy from the circus,” explained Art. “He fell in an aeroplane. Is he much hurt?”
From the boy’s pulse the doctor’s hands had reached for the boy’s heart and forehead. Without reply, the doctor sprang to the ground and an instant later was back with a stimulant which he forced between the injured boy’s teeth. Again he took hold of his wrist and for some moments sat in silence watching the unconscious form.
Meanwhile Mr. Trevor was pleading with the growing crowd to stand back. Apparently the effect of the doctor’s stimulant was not what he had hoped. Rushing into the office once more he came out with his hat and coat, his surgical case and a hypodermic syringe. He bared the lad’s arm—there was no sign of blood—then injected some other stimulant.
“Where does he belong?” Dr. Brown asked with concern. “He must be cared for at once. It’s only another proof of Scottsville’s disgrace—the lack of a hospital. I can’t examine him here. Are there any accommodations at the circus?”
Mr. Trevor had thought of that and he knew that there was neither bed nor cot at the circus.
“I hardly know where to take him,” Mr. Trevor began. “Perhaps we had better go to a hotel—”