The motorcyclist groaned. Virginia almost dropped his head in alarm. He wasn’t dead, but certainly that melancholy sound marked the passing of his soul. Other groans followed of such grievous quality that she was sure each one was his last.
“He’s coming around, I believe,” declared the bystander.
The words reawakened hope in Virginia’s breast. “Isn’t he dead?” she murmured gently.
“No.” The voice came from her lap.
Her startled blue eyes dropped. Two wide open black eyes looked up into them wonderingly for an instant and the lids closed.
“Lord,” moaned the stricken one in unmistakable language.
“He’s praying,” thought Virginia and solemnly bowed her head.
Ike returned, followed soon by a doctor.
“He’s regained consciousness,” the bystander told the medical man.
The physician knelt by the injured youth. He listened to his heart and then started to lift an eyelid when both lids opened so wide that Virginia was enabled to confirm her previous impression that the motorcyclist’s eyes were black. The doctor felt the man’s body and the groans redoubled as he touched one of the legs. The medical man straightened up. “His head seems to be all right. There is a fracture of the right leg and probably a rib or two broken. He is lucky to get off so easy. He will be a mass of bruises, too, I suppose,” he announced. He glanced curiously at the waiting car and then at Virginia and went on, “You are Obadiah Dale’s daughter, are you not?”