He threw his horse blanket over her as a protection from the rain and then rushed toward the tool shanty and opened the door.
“Say,” panted he, “there’s a woman out here hurt. Kin I bring her in here while I get a cop to ring up for the wagon?”
Dick Nolan stared at him, vacantly, chewing at the end of his pencil, the figures of the time tickets buzzing in his head. He did not catch the import of the words for a moment, neither did he recognize Ferguson; then his brain burst through the maze of arithmetic and both flashed upon him.
“Oh,” said he in sullen recognition. “Who is it?”
“I didn’t ask for no card,” returned Roddy, sarcastically. It was the first words he had exchanged with Nolan for almost two years, and the fact that he had spoken first, galled him. “Lend me a hand,” requested he, “I don’t t’ink she kin walk.”
They found the girl upon her feet, leaning dazedly against the heavy timbers of the machine. Roddy drew his breath, hissingly as he recognized her; and Dick stabbed through the air at him with one quivering finger.
“What is this, eh? Tell me, quick!” grated he.
“If there’s anything wrong,” answered Roddy, “may I rot and die if I had a hand in it! You know I t’ought well o’ her, Nolan!”
Dick rubbed some of the blood from her face; she was sobbing and clung to him tightly.
“Who done this?” demanded he.