Suddenly, as if to punctuate her thoughts, she caught sight of a familiar figure marching jerkily along the dusty road in front of her. He was even more grotesque from behind, but there was something pathetic in the weary droop of his shoulders. She felt acutely conscious of the comfort of her vehicle.
Two or three times as she neared the angular pedestrian, she rang her bell. But he either did not hear it or he did not notice it; for he kept on in his uneven stride, with his head bent well forward, and his bedraggled straw almost over his ears.
She was almost upon him, and the narrowness of the road showed little clearance between him and the machine, when she rang again. The sound seemed to startle and confuse him. His head rose with a jerk and he stopped short. Then he stepped, with the utmost deliberateness, directly in the path of the approaching car.
With all the power in her lithe body, Judith jammed on both brakes. But it was too late. There was a crash of glass as Faxon's cane went through the window. On her knees where she had been thrown by the suddenness of the stop she heard his "damned ass!" gritted through his teeth. She remembered afterward that she had wondered whether the epithet was for herself or for the stranger in the road. But at the time she heard only the horrible crunch of steel against flesh, the muffled snap as of a broken twig, and a low groan, twice repeated.
Faxon was out of the car in an instant, and standing in the road, his face white as chalk, frantically motioning to her to reverse. In a daze she put on the power, and when she had moved back a few feet, followed him outside.
But her daze was only momentary. For just an instant she stood stupidly watching Faxon struggle with a dreadfully inanimate brown mass. Then she became herself.
"Here," she cried. "In the car—quick." And when Faxon seemed indecisive, she laid hold of the unconscious figure herself and helped to lift it into the machine.
As she climbed in after it, Faxon made as if to follow her. But she waved him off.
"You can make that train if you hurry," she said sharply. "It's only a little way to the station." And with that she tossed his cane to him, and all but kicked his bag after it.
Faxon expostulated, but she was too occupied in turning her car around to heed him. The sudden sharp hum of the motor as she jumped from speed to speed made him realise the futility of his protests, and so, philosophically, but not a little shaken by the suddenness of it all, he picked up his bag and stick and made for the station.