"He—he—where is he, Roger?" clinging suddenly to Roger's hand as he laid her back on the couch.
"Locked in the tool house. Charley, you must tell me what happened so I can help you."
"Why—he—he pushed me backward and I must have hit something when I fell. The back of my head is very sore and my head aches terribly—and I'm a little sick at my stomach."
"Let me see your head," said Roger peremptorily. He parted the mass of bronze brown hair, wondering even in his anger and pity at its softness and thickness. It was not difficult to locate the great lump at the base of the skull.
"He might have killed you if it hadn't been for your hair. The skin isn't broken. Be still, Charley, till I get a basin of water and a towel."
He was back in a moment and sitting down on the edge of the couch, he attempted to bathe the swelling. But Charley groaned in agony at the first touch, so he gave that up and bathed her face and wrist awkwardly but very gently.
"I guess it's my turn to say 'Poor Child,'" Roger murmured.
The quick tears sprang to Charley's eyes. At this moment Dick gave an incoherent shout. Charley gripped Roger's hand.
"It's all right," he said. "He can't get out, the whelp!"
"Roger! Don't hurt him. Promise me you won't hurt him!"