“I can’t help it. I ran till I dropped, and I couldn’t do more, could I? I am afraid my leg is broken. Take care of yourself.”
“I will, and of you, too,” replied Hopkins. “Get up. Now balance yourself on one foot, throw your arms over my shoulders and I will carry you.”
The wounded boy, who had given up in despair, began to take heart now. He did just as Hopkins told him, and the former walked off with him on his back as if his weight were no incumbrance whatever. He did not run, but he moved with a long, swinging stride which carried him and his burden over the ground as fast as most boys would care to walk with no load at all. The mob followed them until they came to the creek which was too wide to jump and too deep to ford, and there they abandoned the pursuit. At all events Hopkins and Stanley saw no more of them that night.
“Look out,” said Stanley, suddenly. “There’s one of them right ahead of us.”
Hopkins looked up and saw a man standing on the track. The manner of his appearance seemed to indicate that he had been hidden in the bushes awaiting their approach.
“You had better put me down and save yourself,” whispered Stanley, as Hopkins came to a halt wondering what he was going to do now. “If you get into a fight with him I can’t help you.”
“I didn’t pick you up to drop you again at the first sign of danger,” was the determined reply. “I wish I had a club or a stone. You don’t see one anywhere, do you?”
“Say, boss,” said the man, in guarded tones.
“Bully for him; he’s a darkey,” exclaimed Hopkins. “We have nothing to fear.”
“Say, boss,” said the man again, as he came down the track, “Ise a friend. Don’t shoot.”