Frank sprang to his side, and with a tremendous effort turned him over upon his back, and getting out his handkerchief, wiped the blood away from his face. As he did so, the first awful thought of death gave way to a feeling of hope. White and still as Johnston lay, his face was warm, and he was surely breathing a little. Seizing a handful of snow, Frank pressed it to the foreman's forehead, and cried to him as though he were asleep,—
"Mr. Johnston, Mr. Johnston! What's the matter with you? Tell me, won't you?"
For some minutes there was no sign of response. Then the injured man stirred, gave a deep sigh followed by a groan, opened his eyes with a look of dazed bewilderment, and put his hand up to his head, which was evidently giving him intense pain.
"Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I was afraid you were dead!" exclaimed
Frank. "Can't I help you to get up?"
Turning upon his shoulder, the foreman made an effort to raise himself, but at once sank back with a groan.
"I'm sore hurt, my lad," he said; "I can't stir. You'll have to get help."
And so great was his suffering that he well nigh lost consciousness again.
Frank tried his best to lift him away from the sleigh, but found the task altogether beyond his young strength in that deep snow, and had to give it up as hopeless. Certainly he was in a most trying situation for a mere boy—fully five miles from the shanty, with an almost untravelled road between that must be traversed by him alone, while the injured man would have to lie helpless in the snow until his return. Little wonder if he felt in sore perplexity as to what should be done, and how he should act under the circumstances.