“Well,” the man said, “it was your own fault; we told you to stop. Anyhow, you had better keep still a bit. If you’re here when we come back, we’ll see what we can do.”
Glancing quickly round, Clay saw the driver sitting by the wrecked car; and then the match went out. In the darkness the nearest men spoke softly to one another.
“What were you going to the mill for?” one man asked him.
“I had some business there,” Clay answered readily. “I buy lumber now and then.”
The men seemed satisfied.
“Leave them alone,” one suggested; “they’ll make no trouble and it’s time we were getting on.”
The others seemed to agree, for there was some shouting to those in front, and the men moved forward. Clay heard the patter of their feet grow fainter, and congratulated himself that he had obviously looked worse than he felt. Now that the shock was passing, he did not think he was much injured, but he lay quiet a few minutes to recover before he spoke to the driver.
“How have you come off?” he asked.
“Wrenched my leg when she pitched me out; hurts when I move it, but I don’t think there’s anything out of joint.”
“As soon as I’m able I’ll have to get on. How far do you reckon it is to the mill?”