Here the man struggled into a half sitting position, as he murmured:
“Didn’t sh-shoot myself! Dippy shot—me! Dippy always—poor—shot—”
Then with a groan he fell back again into a state of coma. Phil, looking hastily over the car, now said:
“Help right the car, boys.”
This was accomplished almost as soon as said, by simply easing the upper side down so that the Six again stood on “all-fours,” as Paul expressed it. It stood squarely across the brook-bed, headed towards the railroad which here was not more than an eighth of a mile distant.
“Now, Paul,” resumed Phil, “you hike across through the brush to the railroad, if necessary. It may be the real highway lays over there somewhere. Pick out the easiest way to get our car there. We can hardly go back the way we came, can we?” The others shook their heads at this. “When you’re through, come back. Mebbe we’ll meet you on the way.”
Without a word Paul vanished in the thick undergrowth beyond the brooklet. Meanwhile Dave was examining the car, which he pronounced uninjured by the rough usage to which it had been subjected with the exception of sundry scars and a slight twist in one of the minor connecting rods, easy to readjust. Both he and Phil were kept busy restoring the things that had been dumped out by the fleeing couple during the last stages of that hurried flight to—where? Probably where they thought the nearest open road would be; or perhaps it was the railroad and the nearest station they sought.
When Paul came back, he said that they were only a short distance to the new highway and the railroad. The guide book told them that they were within a very few miles of a small station east, while Midlandville, the nearest town west, was not more than two hours away, with a good road.
“Better put that chap in the tonneau, hadn’t we?” suggested Worth.
“Aw, where’ll we take him?” This from Dave who now was in the driver’s seat.