“My ankle’s broken!” he exclaimed.
“Let me look at it,” the foreman said, with rough sympathy in his tones. “I’m a sort of doctor. Have to be, with a lot of men getting hurt all the while.”
Entering the ruined shack he picked Larry up as easily as if the young reporter was a child, and carried him outside. Then he looked at the right foot, which was the one that pained the lad. The ankle was swollen, and the shoelaces were stretched tight across the instep. The foreman whipped out his knife, and cut the strings.
“That’s better,” said Larry, with a sigh of relief.
“It’s only sprained, not broken,” the foreman announced, after gently feeling of the injury. “You’ll be laid up a week or so.”
“Can’t I walk now; I mean in a little while?” asked Larry.
“Not unless you want to lame yourself permanently.”
“But I’ve got to!” the lad exclaimed. “I’ve got to send the story of this thing in.”
“Say, don’t you worry about the story,” exclaimed one of the other reporters. “We’ll look out for you, all right. Stanley will telephone it in for you, and tell how you got laid up. We’re not after a beat on this. Don’t worry.”
“But I’m afraid Mr. Emberg will want to hear from me,” said Larry, who, if he had developed any faults yet as a newspaper man, was blessed with that of being too conscientious.